Tracks of the Wolf
by Belashkal
Summary: The life of one the Imperium's most famous Heroes: Commissar General Rolf Yarrick. His steps from childhood to commissar general, from the Space Outlaws to Commissar Sebastian Yarrick. Space Outlaw spinoff. Features Rolf's counterpart. Explicit violence.
1. Legend Reborn

**Legend Reborn**

_ "As an Eagle he'll soar and like an Eagle he'll strike, but he will be the son of the Wolf." _ 

   **--Prophecy by Master Lexicanum Edward McKenzie**

 All stories have a beginning. This too. When the Space Outlaws of the Omega Squadron came to save the Imperium in the six-day blitz, they had great help from a man named Rolf Yarrick. He was a young man when he met them, but not unknown. He was already then a celebrated hero, but even he had to start somewhere. Rolf Yarrick wasn't born to celebrity. Like most of his family, he was born far away from all warfare and all strife. None-the-less, many of his family had joined the Imperial Commissariat, just because of the loss of their parents. Rolf had a grand-cousin, a commissar, and when Rolf was born, that old man was the only man of the Yarrick family who at the moment held officers rank in the Imperial Guard. So the Yarrick family had lost some of its former glory when Rolf Yarrick came to the world. And he came to the world on a winter's night, when the full moon blazed its cold rays, and the howls of wolves could be heard from far away. 

 Despite the weather and the wolves, not much happened when the first-born son of a first-born son was born in the Yarrick family this night. No, things started to happen when Rolf Yarrick was six years old... 

 "Uncle! Uncle!" Rolf called as he ran up to his grand-cousin. He called him uncle, despite that the old commissar was something else. Caspar Yarrick, a seventy year old, limping man, who once had been a commissar, turned and embraced the boy. Rolf almost knocked the old man off his feet. 

 "Oh, take it easy, Rolf! I'm not as strong as I used to be." Caspar whispered as he held the young boy in his arms. Rolf was tall for his age, and then again, Caspar was shrunken with age, his body being ten years older than his mind. The profession as commissar was a craving job, and it had in the end cost Caspar his physical health. 

 Rolf released himself from the embrace. "What did the doctor want with you?" 

 "He wanted to make sure I'm alright, Rolf, nothing else." Caspar said and limped away to a chair on the veranda to their family home. He sat down with a groan, his legs paining him. He couldn't tell Rolf, but the doctor had been there concerning a test they'd taken on Caspar weeks before. The results had been that Caspar was slowly getting lame on both legs, something that came with age in some cases. Apparently it did so in Caspar's case, and he didn't like it. He knew what the lameness meant. He could augment his legs with bionics, he knew it, but he had a principle not to let any bio-technician ever implant anything on him. That explained his lost left ear and the fact that his hands missed three fingers; two on the left and one on the right. No, to Caspar, lameness meant to be bundled up in a wheelchair. He didn't like it. 

 Rolf sat down beside his "uncle". He liked the old man. He could always tell such interesting and wonderful stories. Stories about monsters and men, heroes and villains. Rolf loved them all. 

 "Uncle," Rolf asked after a moment of silence. "Can you tell me the Legend of the Eagle, the Wolf and the Hound of Chaos?" 

 "You've heard it a hundred times I think, Rolf." Caspar said mildly. "Don't you want to hear something else?" 

 "Like what?" 

 "How about a story, which is about... " Caspar made a pause to seek for words. "About just one monster, and one man?" 

 "What sort of monster?" Rolf asked curiously. 

 "A werewolf!" Caspar said and grinned a gap toothed smile. Rolf laughed. 

 "Werewolves aren't for real, uncle. Tell me one about real monsters, like deamons and orks." 

 "Now, who has said werewolves aren't for real?" 

 "Mother..." 

 "Then she is wrong!" Caspar looked tricky and smiled a wry smile. He reached down into his coat pocket and pulled out a long canine tooth. "See, this here tooth belonged to a werewolf. I killed it myself." 

 Rolf took the tooth carefully. It was big, maybe seven centimetres long. And Rolf knew what werewolves were: once human mutants. It had fit into a human sized mouth, which was why it was big to Rolf. "Wow!" he said silently. 

 "Now, let's hear that story..." Caspar wheezed. He cursed his frail, old body silently, but instead he tried to remember what had happened nearly half a century ago. It was hard now. "See Rolf, it started with..." Caspar fell silent and froze. He saw the tall, powerful figure clearly. Clad in flowing robes, it stood silent by one of the barns. It was the total lack of movement that had made Caspar notice it. 

 "What is it, uncle?" Rolf asked. 

 The figure moved and started walking towards the old man and the boy. Caspar knew that gait. Walking with a stride, but with an air of power around it, the figure came closer. As the man came up to Caspar and Rolf, Caspar tried to bite back an urge to yell the man directly into his face. Rolf hadn't seen the sigil that the man was carrying around his neck, and even if he had, he wouldn't know what it stood for. Caspar had seen the ornate "I" and knew that the man was an Inquisitor. 

 "Rolf," Caspar said silently. "Go inside." 

 "But..." 

 "Go to your room!" Caspar suddenly barked angrily at the boy. Rolf shied away at this, but did as he was told. To get reprimanded by his grand-cousin seemed to Rolf like being bitten by a big, nice, furry dog. It was so surprising that the surprise was worse than any pain. 

 Caspar turned to the Inquisitor after he'd seen the door bang shut behind Rolf. "What do you want from me now?" he asked the tall man. 

 The Inquisitor pulled back his cowl and revealed the handsome face of a man in his early forties. Age hadn't fouled him. His hair was already greying, but the eyes were both piercing and genial at the same time. Caspar felt the taste of metal in the air and felt his bowels turn at the fact that he was facing a psyker. 

 "I am Inquisitor Rovannion," the man said. "I take it you're Commissar Yarrick?" 

 "Not any more..." Caspar muttered. "I'm retired since nearly ten years back." 

 "I have read your history. You took well care of the... Wolf child all those years back." 

 "With all due respect, sir, I had to. He owed me blood. My father's and mother's blood." 

 "And lives, undoubtedly," Rovannion said as he sat down on a chair before Caspar. 

 "Of course..." Caspar paused as he shifted his weight on the chair. "But that's not your reason for coming here, right?" 

 "Exactly. I'm here because of the boy. What was his name... Rolf, am I not right?" 

 Caspar nodded and Rovannion smiled. "A fitting name, for a son of the Yarrick family." 

 "Don't start. I didn't choose the name for him. His mother and father did. Besides, what's wrong with being known under a name that means 'Famous Wolf'?" 

 "You tell me, old man..." Rovannion still smiled. 

 Caspar scowled. This man was annoying him. "Get to business, already!" 

 "Ah, let's cut the crap? Right. I like your style, Yarrick." Rovannion's smile disappeared. "The boy has brought me here. Now, you know what he is, Yarrick, there's no hiding it. You have known it since he was born. The mandatory DNA check showed it immediately." 

 "I know. He's already stronger than me, and he'll probably be able to wrestle down his father when he's twelve." 

 "Good, very good. You are not denying the facts. Then you are prepared that he will become a great Hero." 

 Caspar frowned. "Why? What if Rolf chooses to stay here, and become a farmer, like his father? He might not want to become a warrior." 

 "You know the scriptures, Yarrick. He is destined to become a Hero of the Imperium. Hear me, it is destined to be so!" 

 "A wise man said once that the only constant is the past." 

 "But on this point he is wrong, as I take it you're referring to the Death Angel Space Marine's Master Lexicanum? No, Rolf is the Slayer, the Wolf reborn! He is a half-breed Space Marine!" 

 There was a loud crash from one of the many boxes by the corner of the house. Caspar and Rovannion looked up sharp. Rovannion was fast on his feet and ran over to the collection of boxes, Caspar limping after. Rovannion pulled out a coughing and hacking Rolf Yarrick by the collar of his shirt. 

 "What do you know? He's eager to find out his destiny!" Rovannion said as Caspar joined him. 

 "Put him down." Caspar said flatly and Rovannion did as he'd been told. Rolf hid behind Caspar at once. He was afraid of the big Inquisitor. There was something with the man that disturbed him. There was the tang of metal in the air too. He'd called him half-breed too. 

 "I think you should leave, Inquisitor." Caspar said gently, stroking Rolf's hair. 

 The tall Inquisitor turned round, but spoke his last words over his shoulder. "He will become a Hero of the Imperium, Yarrick, whether you like it or not. You'd best tell him about the sword." With that, the Inquisitor mentally teleported away from the ownings of the Yarrick family. 

 "Uncle?" Rolf asked slowly. "What did he mean with half-breed?" 

 Caspar looked sadly down on the boy. "It means many things Rolf. For once, you were born as it. Secondly, you are half-Space Marine. You know how powerful those super humans are, no? Now, you will most certainly become as strong as them, and you'll live just as long as them too. That's what it means to be a half-breed. But according to the Inquisition, you are also destined to be a great warrior... which I both fear and hope is true..." Caspar was silent for a moment. "Let's go inside, it going late." 

 Rolf went inside and made himself ready for bed. But he couldn't sleep. He just thought about what his grand-cousin and that Inquisitor had said. 

 "...Half-breed..." Rolf mumbled to himself as he fell asleep at 3 in the morning. 

 "Your turn, Rolf." Jacob Howard said as he'd moved his chess piece. 

 Across the table, Rolf Yarrick sat with steepled fingers, thinking. He was a lanky young man, ageing 14, soon 15, with bluish hair and genial green eyes, but there was a hard note to them. His skin was lightly tanned, just as most Callidussians'. Half a minute after Jacob had made his move, Rolf moved one of his pieces. 

 "Check mate. I win again." Rolf said simply and sat back in his chair. This had been the third time he'd won over Jacob this day, but the other boy was stubborn. It was an insult to Rolf's tactical intellect. There was only one man that constantly bested Rolf in chess, and that was his grand-cousin Caspar, but the old man had a lifetime of chess playing behind him. And a lifetime of warfare. Rolf frowned as he thought that his favourite relative had played chess with living pieces, so to say. Now, Caspar was bundled up in a wheelchair and needed all help he could get. Rolf often played chess with Caspar on the evenings, when Rolf had gotten home from school and done his homework. It had also been Caspar that had told him of the Yarrickian Sword, a sword that was older than the Imperium itself. A sword that was the bane of deamons and mutants. And Rolf was next in the line to weld it. 

 "I don't believe it!" Jacob gasped. "How the frekk do you do it, Rolf?"

 "Tactics and strategy, my friend." Rolf replied. He threw a glance at his wristwatch. "I'd better go home. It's getting late." 

 As Rolf got up, Jacob started picking the chess pieces up. "I just have to try to develop a new plan till next time, eh Rolf?" 

 "Whatever..." Rolf replied. "See you in school on Monday, Jac." 

 "Yeah, see you." 

 Rolf left the house of his friend and started the 96 kilometres long travel home. He had a motorised bicycle, but it wasn't much. He would have to stay somewhere over the night if he was delayed. If he weren't delayed, he would be home long after dark. 

 He kicked the ignitor-switch and the motorbike flared into roaring life. As he drove away, Rolf's head was filled with many things. Amongst them what he would do after graduation. He barely noticed the speedometer reaching 60 kph as he sped down a straight. His bike wasn't meant for higher speed than 40 kph, but Rolf had modified it slightly with the help of one of his cousins. 

 When he'd travelled for an hour or so, and put 60 kilometres behind himself, Rolf saw something in the horizon that made him puzzled. The sun had already set and the night was dark. The moon lit up the night, but it didn't dull the eerie red glow from the horizon. What the frekk was that? As he came closer and closer, the red glow got brighter and brighter. When Rolf was barely a few kilometres away from home, he came to realize what it was. It wasn't that he was slow-to-catch; it was that his worst thoughts had been confirmed. The enormous flames licking the sky had been a give away too. 

 Putting his bike to the limit, Rolf sped as fast as he could home. His home was on fire, but why? What had happened? An accident with the petrol tank? The dried oats in the barn catching fire? What had caused the fire? 

 When Rolf slowed down and stopped at the outside of his home, he was shocked to see it all burning. There were no screams, no pleas for help. No family! Rolf ran as fast as he could towards the main house. The heat hit him like a sledgehammer. Nothing could've survived in there! Running back to the bike to get his water flask, which he always carried with him, he splashed water on a napkin from his pocket and placed it over his mouth before he went into the flaming inferno that was his home. 

 The heat was enormous, Rolf could almost feel his skin blistering. He slowly made his way to the main hall. By the fireplace, he knew the sword would rest in its rack there. He couldn't place his finger on why, but later; Rolf Yarrick would always wonder why he'd been so determined to get the sword of his family. The next thing he did, as he'd slung the sword case over his shoulder, was to go to the kitchen. Maybe someone was alive. Someone had to be alive! 

 He walked around, calling for his mother, his brother and his infant sister. His father had died a few months before, fulfilling his duty to the Emperor as an Imperial Guard Sergeant. That had been what the black clad commissar had said when he'd come home with Sylvester Yarrick's remains. Rolf heard a yelp from somewhere by the back of the house. He knew where it was. His grand-cousin's room. Caspar lived downstairs since his legs had given up. Splashing water on the napkin again, Rolf made way for his grand-cousin's room. 

 He found the retired old commissar lying on the floor, panting hard. Rolf found a piece of cloth and placed it over Caspar's mouth, after he'd dampened it with water just as he'd done with his own napkin. He was talking smoothly to his old relative. 

 "Calm down, uncle." Rolf still called him uncle, despite the passing of years. "It's me, Rolf." 

 Caspar looked with tired, grey eyes into Rolf's young green. "Praise be to the Emperor..." the old man mumbled. "The others..." 

 Caspar tried to speak, but Rolf hushed him. 

 "I know, uncle. Now, let's get you out of here." With that, Rolf heaved the frail body of Caspar Yarrick up in his arms and carried him with ease. Caspar knew full well of Rolf's strength, and it was all due to his half-Space Marine gene strand. Caspar sent a prayer of thanks to the Emperor, and unorthodoxly maybe, Hrodwulf Le'man. 

 Rolf went out by the backdoor and walked as far as he could from the house to avoid the heat, but still remaining inside the area where all houses were situated. He put Caspar down on the ground and removed the cloth from Caspar's face. The old man seemed to be worse for wear. Rolf's worry reflected in his face, because Caspar spoke. "I'm dying, Rolf..." The old man started coughing, and Rolf did his best to stop him. 

 "The others... they're dead..." Caspar gasped as he stopped coughing. 

 "I know," Rolf replied, tears burning his eyes. "Uncle, what happened? What the hell happened?" 

 Caspar tried to rise on his elbows, but failed. "...Dark Lord..." he whispered. 

 "Dark Lord? Who's that?" 

 Caspar's voice was barely a whisper. "...isten to me Rolf... Go to Vindaree...eave this behin...and promise to take revenge for this..." 

 "You've said yourself revenege only deepens the scars, uncle!" 

 "...oesn't matter... Take the sword...fill your destiny... Heh... The Inquisitor was right... You're destined to become a Hero..." 

 "Uncle, what do you mean?" Rolf asked as he cradled Caspar's old body. The old man didn't respond. He was already dead. 

 Rolf tried to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes. He swallowed to get the clump of sorrow out his mouth, but he failed. Rolf hugged the corpse of Caspar Yarrick tightly to himself and wept. With Caspar gone, Rolf knew he was the last surviving member of his family... And it was not a prospect he liked. That's when he heard the heavy tread of armoured feet behind him. 

 Rolf turned his head to look over his shoulder. A slight gasp left his lips as he saw what was approaching him. 

 Clad in gore coloured power armour trimmed with brass and gold, a massive power fist pulsating with force and with an enormous axe in his other hand, the Dark Lord was an awe-inspiring sight. And equally terrible. Rolf turned his head back, to avoid looking at the Berzerker Lord any more. Rolf had seen the man's face; high-cheeked, with a powerful jaw, red-blond hair and despicably evil, black eyes. Rolf felt the dark aura emanating from the warrior as he stopped a metre or so from him. The only sound heard was that of the burning and collapsing buildings and the slight humming from the reactor in the backpack of the Dark Lord's armour, as it supplied his armour with power to the electro-reactive plasteel. 

 "What do we have here?" the Dark Lord cooed, his voice deep and melodious. "One, lone Wolf's son left, isn't it so?" 

 Rolf finally let go of Caspar's body and stood up. In one swift move, he pulled his sword (it was indeed his now) and aimed the edge at the throat of the Dark Lord. A sneer spread itself over the renegade's face. 

 "Do you seriously believe that you can injure me, maggot? The mere thought is laughable." As to prove his point, the Dark Lord gave out a short, hard laugh. "You are nothing! And I only fight the best my opponent can offer... " 

 Rolf felt a tang of hopelessness, but knocked it away. In his mind, he mumbled a prayer to the Emperor to protect him. Rolf didn't reach to the Dark Lord's shoulder even, despite being 1m90. He felt for the first time in his life... feeble. 

 "I am prepared to let you go, boy, if you promise me one thing," the Dark Lord spoke. 

 "What might that be?" Rolf replied, gathering strength to his voice through his pain and sorrow. 

 "Before I kill you, become a great warrior. I'd take much more pride in such a fight, than to fight you here and now. There's no honour in that!" 

 "I swear so in the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind!" Rolf shouted. As to prove his point, he held forth his right arm, palm open. The Dark Lord took the notion and slashed a scar in the palm with his battle-axe. Then, he smiled. 

 Rolf turned round and sheathed his sword. Walking away from the flaming inferno that once had been his home. He would have to get to Vindaree. There he could start a new life. A life as a soldier in the Emperor's Imperial Guard. He'd become the greatest amongst them. That, he promised to himself. 

 Lord Kevlinn watched the young man leave. He was soon joined by seven of his Berzerker retinue and a figure in fluorescent power armour and robes over it. The helmet of the robed renegade was adorned with long antlers and the eye slits seemed to burn with green-blue fire. 

 "I though we had a deal, Lord." the robed one spoke. "All members of the Yarrick family have to die!" 

 "I just had a second thought." Kevlinn replied. "There was no sport in killing them, Sorcerer Zaraxx. And I find murder a disgusting way of life. To die honourably in battle is more in my taste." 

 Behind his facemask, Zaraxx scowled. "We had an agreement, Kevlinn!" 

 "And I had a change of mind!" Kevlinn snapped. He turned to face the sorcerer. It turned his guts to even try to find a pattern in the fluorescent colours of the man's armour. "I am not stupid, despite the fact that most people see me as a blood crazed Berzerker. I can think. The mind is the most potent weapon of all, wasn't that what you said?" 

 Zaraxx nodded slowly. 

 "Good. I've been thinking... Why should I kill all the Yarricks? They have always been great warriors, so why exterminate the family which is the only one capable of giving me a worthy opponent?" 

 Zaraxx nodded again. It made sense. 

 Kevlinn continued. "Then it came to me: You want them out of YOUR way, because they hamper YOUR plans, not mine! Am I not right, Zaraxx? You were planning on betraying me, you despicable bastard! I was generous when I let you into my horde, and how do you repay me? With guile and deceit, which only serves to strengthen yourself and to please that milksop you call a god? Tzeentch has always bowed down before the mightiest of the Dark Gods; Khorne. And he shall always do so! And you will regret dearly that you tried to fool Khorne's most chosen warrior!" 

 Zaraxx stepped back, pulling out his force axe. The mutated weapon screamed an unearthly scream as Zaraxx channelled the raw force of the Warp through it. With a roar of anger, he charged the Berzerker Lord, force axe raised above his head. Kevlinn met the attack head on, his own battle-axe, an ancient Eldar weapon, clanging into the force weapon of the sorcerer. For a few seconds, it seemed like the two were an equal match, but suddenly Kevlinn's power fist came flying through the air. Kevlinn grabbed Zaraxx' head with it. Slowly clenching his fist, he caused unbearable pain to the sorcerer, slowly crushing the man's head. The sorcerer dropped his force axe and Kevlinn raised him high into the air. 

 "Let this be a message to the foul god you worship; Khorne's warriors follows their own path and they don't enjoy being fooled!" Kevlinn hissed.

 With that, he closed his power fist completely. The helmet of Sorcerer Zaraxx was crushed with a wet and snapping sound. The beheaded corpse of the sorcerer fell to the ground with an empty thud. 

 With his power fist slick with blood, Kevlinn turned to his retinue. "Blood for the Blood God!" 

 "Skulls for the Skull Throne of Khorne!" the seven warriors echoed. 

 Kevlinn smiled. "Now, aspiring champions, you know how to deal with deceitful members of the lesser gods." Pause. "And how to get good enemies to fight..." 

 One of the Berzerkers stepped forward. Kevlinn recognised him as Egrimm Bloodmauler. What his Imperial name had been was forgotten since long, but the Berzerker name fit him well. Egrimm was equipped with a pair of power fists. "Milord, why did we let the boy go? Excuse my blasphemy, but the sorcerer might have had a point... " 

 Once again, Kevlin smiled. "Egrimm, know this: When a man loses his all; his family and everything he has loved, all emotions fade away into dust, more or less. The only feeling left is hate, and it is hate that our God feeds upon. Hate, blood, battle and the smoking pyres of our enemies bodies." 

Kevlinn looked after the boy again. "We have destroyed his life. And he will hate us for it. But the hatred means he won't be in complete control of his feelings, which I believe is a coming asset to us in his future... " 

 It was dawn now. Rolf had walked the entire night, and the night before, and the night before that. For three days he'd been trodding along the road that went to Callidus's capital, Vindaree. For three days he hadn't met a single truck or car. This was futile. Banishing the thought in an instant, Rolf focused on his task at hand. He had to get to Vindaree. He'd heard there was a reforming of the Callidussian 27th, and he was intent on joining. There was only one problem: Vindaree was more than 15,000 kilometres form his home. To walk would take ages. 

 Rolf had given a damn in his motorbike when he'd left home. It would've run of petrol after a few kilometres anyway. 

 Rolf pulled of a long, vivid curse as he walked. It was in the middle of summer, and the sun was burning him. He had to ration the little water he had, but the hot sun was killing him. 

 Rolf had walked a further five kilometres, when he collapsed by the roadside. It was noon now, and the sun burned worse than ever. Rolf concluded it must've been more forty degrees above the freezing point of water. 

 Water... 

 Rolf took out the water flask from his motorbike and squirted some water into his mouth. It was almost empty. Not good. 

 "Oh, fudge... " Rolf thought darkly to himself. He was going to die here, unless someone was going to come by. But the odds were against him, that he knew, being just a farmer's son. 

 Something in the back of his head nagged at him. What was he doing, giving up like this? Was he not the first-born son of a first-born son in the Yarrick family? Was he not the welder of the Deamonslayer sword? Was he not the last of his line and a half-Space Marine, come to that? With an enormous strength of will, Rolf heaved himself up and onto the road again. He was not going to fail his mother, his sister and brother, his father, Uncle Caspar and last but not least, his great ancestor Hrodwulf Le'man, a Saint! He was not going to fail them! He was not going to fail his family or the Emperor. The leader of humanity needed him; Rolf knew it! He walked into the middle of the road like a drunkard, the heat almost overcoming him. He didn't see the 150 tonnes heavy truck speeding down the MC1 road... 

 Dan Gregor was nothing more than a trucker. He'd been a trucker for a long time. At eighteen years of age, he'd joined the Guard and ended up as munitions driver for a tank company. He'd left the Imperial Guard at 27 and started driving trucks on Callidus instead. Now he was in his late forties, and he still enjoyed the calm, uneventful life he led. He was a man of average height, but the many years behind the steering wheel of a truck had made him rather fleshy. Still, there was nothing wrong with his eyesight, nor was there with his reflexes. Despite his corpulence, he was fit as a fiddle, according to the medical diagnostics. Gregor new full well he had perfect eyesight, despite his age, but he couldn't believe what he saw this day, as he drove down the MC1. 

 He thought he saw a young man stagger out in the middle of the road, as if dazed by liquor. But Gregor knew it was because of the heat outside. When he sounded the horn of his truck, the young, bluish haired man just turned his head, barely aware of the truck. Gregor pulled the brakes the hardest he could, well-oiled pistons and brakes screaming in agony as the huge vehicle came to a stop, centimetres from Rolf's head. 

 Gregor almost threw himself out of the huge vehicle, grabbing a water flask instinctively as he did so. He got to Rolf quickly and helped the boy to get some water over his lips and down his throat. Gregor pulled the silent conclusion that this boy had been walking these roads for days probably, with almost no protection from the summer sun of Callidus. Rolf was burnt on many places by the sun, despite his tanned skin. 

 "Great God-Emperor!" Gregor stammered. "What the frekk has happened to you, boy? And what are you doing out here?" 

 "Ran away..." was all Rolf managed. Gregor knew the signs of sunstroke when he saw them. He helped the boy into the cabin of his truck and back to the sleeping cabin. His truck was meant for long trips like the one he was on: Shorewood to Vindaree, nearly 15,000 kilometres of nothing but crops. Gregor told the boy to lie down on his bed and went to get some ice cubes and something for the boy to drink. 

 In Gregor's eyes, Rolf appeared to him a 16-17 years old man from Invas County, judging by his dialect. Gregor was spot on about the heritage, but he missed Rolf's age by two years. Neither did he have any idea of what had happened to the Yarrick family. 

 He came back in to Rolf with a cup of cold water in his hands. "Rest now, lad. You've been out in that sun too much," Gregor said as he gave Rolf the water. 

 Rolf tried to mutter thanks, but his lips were so dry, nothing came over them. Gregor understood this. He turned his bulk around quite swiftly and removed himself from the sleeping cabin. As he came back into the driving cabin, he closed the door too the sleeping room after himself, sat down by the driver's seat and ignited the engines. He was soon on his way for Vindaree again, with his eight wheeled truck with its three trailers, each trailer carrying nearly fifty tonnes of oats. 

 Rolf woke in the sleeping cabin nearly ten hours later. As he rose, he felt his head swim and his face burn. Lying down again, he felt his face. His skin was peeling off on his nose and forehead. The sun had taken its toll on him. He saw the half-full glass on the bedside stand next to him, and finally remembered where he was. He was on one of those great trucks that travelled his land regularly. He remembered a portly man who'd helped him off the hot road and into this truck. Rolf took the glass of water and swigged it down. He was so thirsty, and so hungry. It struck him he hadn't eaten for a few days. 

 Rolf staggered up, the swimming feeling in his head gone now, and out of the sleeping cabin. He dropped down on the seat on the right, next to the driver. The sun as setting, Rolf saw. He must've slept the day away. And still he was tired. 

 Rolf heard a strange guttural sound from beside himself and snapped his head to the left. He saw that the man that had helped him was asleep, snoring, which drew Rolf to the simple conclusion no one was driving. 

 "Mister!" Rolf shouted in shock. "Wake up!" 

 The man awoke with a snort and looked at Rolf, bewildered. "What? What is it, son?" 

 "Who's driving?" Rolf's voice was still full of shock. 

 The man looked confusedly at Rolf for a second and then started to laugh. "Take it easy, boy." He pointed on the control board. "The cogitator takes care of the driving while I'm sleeping, frekk, it takes care of the driving most of the time." 

 Now it was Rolf's turn to look confused. The man saw this and explained. "This is not any truck like the ones you have home at your farmstead, son. This truck is powered by a nuclear isotope, and is meant to travel great distances, without any need for fuel. If you listen, you won't hear the diesel chatter." 

 Rolf did as the man had told him, and he seemed to be right. There was no diesel sound, no distinct 'chugchugchug' like most motors. There was just a distant hiss or something. Rolf couldn't put his finger on what. 

 "But... " Rolf wondered. "That still doesn't explain how you can keep this thing on the road, without steering." 

 "As I said, a cogitator unit has care of this sweetie while I catch some well deserved sleep, or eat my dinner. I only steer while I'm in cities, if I'm right." 

 The two fell silent. Then the man stuck out his hand. "Dan Gregor, trucker, and you are?" 

 "Rolf Ya..." Rolf stopped. No, he wouldn't give his name away, what if this man knew what had happened at the grounds of the Yarrick family? No, he had to take another name. Nothing came to mind but an autonym...

 "Rolf what?" Gregor asked. 

 "Rolf Kaleen." Rolf said. Kaleen was a small, cat-like creature that lived on Callidus. It lived alone, and was the main prey for the wolfhounds of Callidus, along with sheep, deer and other cattle. Despite that the wolfhounds preyed on the farm animals, they were respected animals throughout Callidus. The kaleen, on the other hand, were devious little critters. They were inhumanly sly, probably a total of their exposure to the Empyrean long ago, as was the case with the wolfhounds' lifespans. The kaleen weren't satisfied with taking farmhouse rodents; they took chickens' eggs, small piglets and much more. 

 "Rolf Kaleen, eh?" Gregor said and smiled. "Betcha you're hungry, eh?" 

 Rolf nodded. Gregor got his bulk out of his chair and moved to the back of the cabin, to something the apparently was the kitchen of this trailer/truck/caravan. 

 He came back with a plate with steaming bacon and eggs. "Hope it suits. It's all I can do right now, but when we arrive at Threas Town tomorrow, I'll get you something better." 

 "Thank you." Rolf said as he tucked in on the food. It was truly delicious. Three days, nearly four, without food had given him a ravenous appetite. 

 When Rolf had finished his plate, Gregor spoke again. "I just want to know, Mr. Kaleen, where are you going?" 

 "Vindaree." Rolf replied simply. 

 "Good, that's where I stop. Crops for Ichar." Gregor gestured backwards, meaning his load. "May I ask why?" 

 "To join the reforming Callidussian 27th." 

 Gregor looked shocked. "The Guard?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Lord Emperor... You'll be in for a life of war-fare, ya know." 

 "I know." 

 "But... why? I mean, there are plenty of... non-violent things for a young man like you to do." 

 "Not for me..." 

 "Kaleen?" 

 "Hmm?" 

 "I don't doubt you'd come in with the Guard, but... Don't go for a simple Guardsman. Something inside me says that you'll go far, very far, if you just don't settle down on basic foot-slogger." 

 Rolf looked back at the portly man. "I wont'." Then Rolf smiled for the first time since he'd left his friend's house four days earlier. 

 He looked back out the window of the cab after that, his thoughts in the distance along with his gaze. A good twenty minutes passed before Rolf spoke again. "How long will it take to Vindaree?" 

 "Oh, a week, if we'd be going non-stop. But we aren't. So, about ten days." Gregor said. He was silent for a while, and then smiled. "Well, boy, you'll have to stand me for ten days." 

 "No problem in that," Rolf replied, his gaze still at the horizon. 

 Gregor decided to ask something he'd been dying to ask for a long time now. "Boy, what is with the sword of yours?" 

 Rolf knew what he meant. The sword lay by the bed now, at the back. "Family heirloom," he replied. 

 "Oh." Gregor went silent. He'd never heard of the Yarrickian Deamon Slayer Sword, and thus couldn't understand the underlying truth in Rolf's statement. He didn't even know Rolf's true name. "It's a fine piece of work," Gregor said and then decided not to bother Rolf any more. 

 Rolf, on the other hand, fell asleep an hour later, still looking out at the square kilometres of crops. 

As predicted, ten days later Rolf and Gregor arrived at Vindaree. Being the good-natured man Gregor was, he dropped off Rolf outside the Adeptus Munitorum building in central Vindaree, before heading for the freighter port to the north of the city. Rolf had thanked him heartily and wished Gregor luck in his truckings. 

 Neither Rolf, nor Gregor knew, that the latter would a week later find out what had happened to the Yarrick family and recognise the face of the one missing member of the family. 

 However, Rolf was now walking the hallways of the vast Munitorum building. It was an enormous sight. The place was just as big on the inside as the outside, Rolf concluded. The Adeptus Munitorum of Vindaree was a huge gothic-style building, its highest peaks reaching more than five hundred metres into the air. Before Rolf went inside, he stood a while to gawp up at the building, almost wringing his own neck off in the process. The many gargoyles up there looked to him like deamons frozen in motion. 

 "Nice..." he said silently to himself and went inside. 

 The main hall was a huge place. The high, arched windows allowed oceans of light to filter in through coloured glass depicting glorious moments in Imperial History. Rolf passed one that showed a great grey wolf battling a gore coloured Chaos Hound, with a broken eagle lying between them. Rolf stopped and studied the fine piece of work for a moment and then walked on. 

 He was far from alone. People had come from all over Callidus to join the reformed Callidussian 27th. It was a prestigious regiment. Rolf remembered his father had talked a lot about its commander, who apparently was a wise and good man. Rolf couldn't remember any face or name of him right now, but he thought he would see him some day. But now he needed to sign up. But where? He stopped a lean man wearing the uniform of the Callidussian regiment and a peaked cap bearing the insignia Rolf immediately recognised as the 27th. Rolf was taller than the man, who seemed to be in his early forties. 

 "Excuse me, sir, but where do I sign up?" Rolf asked. 

 The man looked Rolf over, raised an eyebrow and then smiled. "Right over there, boy." he said, pointing towards a long line of men. "It must be umpteenth time I say that today... But unlike the others, you look promising." The officer studied the sword slung over Rolf's back. "But I'm not sure you'll be allowed to keep that, boy." 

 "It's all I have got... Thank you, sir." With that, Rolf joined the other young men at the long line. 

 The officer stood watching him for a while. There was something wrong with the boy, but he couldn't put his finger on what. Rolf was in heads height with the tallest of the other men, and still there was something over him that said he wasn't done growing. The officer watched as Rolf signed up and entered through the door that lead to where they'd be issued their uniforms. As he turned, the officer stared right at the glass picture showing Saint Le'man holding the head of the foul Deamon Karzhan aloft, his sword in his right hand. When the officer saw the sword, he snapped round to look at where Rolf had gone, but the young man was gone from sight. 

 "When I call your name, you report to Clerk Terh, Clerk Inan, Clerk Ungd or Clerk Ornock here and they will write down your names, birth dates, heights, heritage and other information." 

 The lieutenant spoke with a clear voice, and Rolf had no trouble hearing him. He was standing in a big yard, still on Munitorum ground, but wearing the green and yellow camouflaged uniform of a Callidussian Guardsman. His sword was still hanging over his back, but it was joined by a lasgun: the Imperial Guardsman's best friend. On his head was a green/yellow "baseball cap". Due to his sword, Rolf felt the looks of the other men burn in his neck. He felt like turning and giving them an acid stare, but refrained from it, knowing it was bad to begin his career by been reprimanded. 

 "Know also," the lieutenant spoke again. "That some of you will be taken out for NCO training, but only the most promising will actually receive command capabilities, and it will rarely be more than sergeant! 

 "Alright! Abranh, Adarn, Celi and Drorr!" 

 The four recruits whose names were Abranh, Adarn, Celi and Drorr moved up and away to the Munitorum clerks. They stood there for a few minutes, the clerks taking down their personal information. Rolf made the silent conclusion that he should've stuck to his old name: Yarrick. Kaleen meant he'd go earlier. Frekk, this would be the first, last and only time he would ever lie. Never again, he promised to himself. Never, ever again! 

 "Dsurt, Earn, Frigg and Hunt!" 

 Another four recruits moved up and walked to the clerks. A stocky commissar had joined the clerks now. The first four moved away, towards the billeting they would have while here, chatting. Rolf swallowed. This was not good. They weren't many in this group, just thirty-two. 

 "Imiak, Isil, Jorunn and Kaleen!" 

 Rolf closed his eyes, swallowed again and moved up to the clerk. Here goes, he thought. 

 Commissar Hendrik Irwin wasn't a big man. He was a short, squat figure with dark brown, almost black hair and dark eyes. He was in his mid-thirties, but he was already rounding out around the waist, the results of five years of staff service and good living. His colleagues, not to mention the Commissar General, often joked about his well-fed state, but Irwin knew they weren't meaning any evil with it. But there was one thing he couldn't stand; the heat, the inexorable heat of Callidus in the summertime. All other commissars complained about what the heat did with them and their black uniforms, most doing the highly undignified move of removing dolman's jacket and undershirt to walk around stripped to the waist in their dress breeches. Most sported scars caused by the foul enemy. With Irwin, it was different; he had scars, of course, but not the body to dare walk around like that. He'd look silly. He'd had a black, bushy moustache until the time he started rounding out, and then his round cheeks had made him seem rather silly with it, so he'd shaved it off. Now he was clean-shaven, like most his comrades. 

 And then there was that with the sun and his bulk. He was warmer than most people because of his state, and this wasn't improved by the fact that he didn't want to walk around as the other politicos, stripped to the waist. So instead he retreated to his office and the air-conditioning there, which was where he spent most of Callidus summer, when he was here. 

 Wiping sweat from his face with a white handkerchief, Irwin walked down and out to the forming grounds. He looked at the many groups of Guardsmen to be. They all seemed very promising, but it would take its time to get used to the new faces. He'd been a friend with so many of the other soldiers, in the last forming of the Callidussian 27th. He would miss them all. It was against common rule for commissars to acquaint themselves with Guardsmen, but Irwin didn't care. 

 He stopped by one of the grounds, resting his back against a wall, which was thrown in shadow. It was a bit cooler, but not much. He watched Lieutenant Kamer call up the names of four young men and they stepped forward, ready to put down their information to the Administratum clerks. 

 Adarn, that is a good family. Knew his father, Irwin thought. 

 As Adarn and his three friends moved away, Irwin stepped up to join by the clerks, to just watch what was happening. 

 He watched the next four sign up. Dsurt was also a fine family. Irwin remembered a very old sergeant in the old 27th. Probably the lad's grandfather, Irwin thought to himself. 

 Another bunch of young men moved up. Amongst them was a tall, lean tanned man with bluish-black hair. He was carrying a non-regimental sword on his back. Irwin tried to remember something the Commissar General had said about people with bluish-black hair, but he couldn't recall it. Not now. The young man seemed... younger than the rest. Irwin walked up beside the clerk the boy was talking to. 

 "Name?" the clerk asked coldly. 

 "Rolf Kaleen," the boy simply replied. 

 Irwin felt perplexed. "Now there's a contradiction in terms." 

 The boy named Rolf and the clerk looked at him. "Why so, commissar sir?" the clerk asked. 

 "Kaleen is a catlike creature, and this boy doesn't seem so feline in his approach. Perhaps lupine. Besides, the kaleen is a cat native to Invas County and I can't recall it as a Callidussian surname at all. 

 "I think you're lying to us, boy. Tell me your real name." Irwin said softly. 

 Rolf swallowed hard. Not good. "It's Yarrick, Rolf Yarrick, commissar." 

 Irwin looked bewildered for a second and then got to senses. "Now you're lying again. Your real name!" 

 "I'm telling you sir, my name is Rolf Yarrick, first born son of Sergeant Sylvester Yarrick, grand-cousin of Commissar Caspar Yarrick!" 

 Irwin was taken aback. What in the name of the Throne would bring a Yarrick here? Of course, the lad's father had died just a few months earlier, but still... He had a family, didn't he? 

 "Come with me boy," Irwin said and gestured Rolf to follow him. "Lieutenant, go on, I take care of this one!" Irwin called over his shoulder. This was truly amazing! 

 Irwin closed the door to his office behind himself and told Rolf to sit down. Rolf sat down in a chair after removing the sword sheath and the lasgun from his back. He looked patiently at Irwin. Irwin sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk, opposite to Rolf. 

 "My name, boy, is Imperial Commissar Hendrik Irwin. And I take it you're Trooper Rolf Yarrick, from now on." 

 "Sir." Rolf couldn't with himself to say more. Irwin was so different from his loving and charismatic grand-cousin. To Rolf, Irwin appeared a bit too young to be as round over the belly as he was. 

 "Try to relax, I mean no harm, none at all." Irwin said and raised his hands. He removed the cap from his head and tried to wipe the sweat out of his hair. "You're wondering why you're here, right?" 

 "Yes, sir, I am." Rolf replied, a tad of anxiety in his voice. Irwin heard this and chuckled. 

 "I said relax... " Irwin said and leaned back in his chair. "Now, the reason I brought you here is you trying to go into the Guard under a false name. It wouldn't have worked long, even if I hadn't caught you. Humph! Never trust clerks and officers to do a commissar's job, that's what I say. Problem with them is that they never question, in any other sense than literally. They do what they do, and naught more. That is why we commissars are, but I believe your grand-cousin already told you this, didn't he?" 

 "You're testing me, sir. But yes, Uncle Caspar told me." Rolf replied, his voice full of his Invas County dialect. It went in stark contrast to Irwin's flawless Low Gothic. 

 "Uncle? I thought he was your grand-cousin?" 

 "He w..." Rolf stopped himself from saying 'was'. "He is, yes, but I refer to him as 'uncle'." 

 "I see..." Irwin said as he drifted into thoughts. A new Yarrick, eh? But he seemed so young, too young for Guard. "How old are you, Rolf? You can't be over eighteen, that is for sure." 

 "I'm to be fifteen in a few weeks, sir." Rolf replied truthfully. 

 "I see... But still you try to join the Guard. Why?" 

 "I don't want to reply to that, sir, with all due respect." 

 "Why not?" 

 Rolf's eyes darkened. "I think you ask too many questions, sir..." 

 Irwin got up, a slight tone of anger in his voice when he spoke. "I ask as many question as there are needed until you give me a straight answer!" 

 "And all I say to you, sir, is that you don't want to know!" Rolf snapped. 

 Irwin stomped round the desk to face Rolf. "Now listen you little-" 

 In a flash, Rolf had pulled the Yarrickian Sword and aimed its tip towards Irwin's throat. The rotund commissar looked down the glittering length of adamantine, monomolecular-edged steel and swallowed. This wasn't something he'd counted on. But he didn't show his fear to the young boy. That would be stupid. 

 "This is a capital offence, trooper!" Irwin growled after a moment of silence. "Give me one good reason not to have you drummed and disgraced on the spot!" 

 "I'd give you two good reasons, commissar sir," Rolf replied, his hand kept steady as he held the sword and Irwin at arm's distance. "One; this here sword could cut your head clean off before you could say 'whizzmagnit'. Two; I am a Yarrick." 

 "Why does the fact that you're a Yarrick matter, eh?" 

 "An inquisitor once told me that I was destined for glory and greatness. He also revealed to me that I'm more than human-" 

 "You're a mutant then!" Irwin snapped, his hand tracing for his holstered bolt pistol. Rolf thrust the sword forward a bit, to encourage Irwin not to do so. Irwin understood and calmed down. "If you're not mutant, then what are you?" 

 Rolf sheathed his sword and bent close to Irwin's ear. "I'm a half-breed Space Marine," he whispered. "Don't tell anyone." 

 Irwin looked shocked. "I won't," he said silently. There was a moment of silence between the two. Then Irwin went over to his desk and pulled out a drawer. He picked up a tiny piece of brass and a book. He handed both to Rolf, sticking the pins to Rolf's collar. 

 "I think the inquisitor was right about you..." Irwin said. "There is something about you, Rolf, that says to me you will go far, very far. Here, I give you the rank of Sergeant. We need promising young men like you in the Guard. And also take this book. As a sergeant, you'll have to learn how to command your men." 

 Rolf took the book appreciatively. "Thank you, sir. But, wasn't I too young?" 

 "Sergeant Yarrick; I may seem like a plump, mid-thirties commissar, but for that, I'm not dumb and in this regiment, I have incredible pull. Things like age can be altered." Irwin smiled. "Now, it's nearly noon, so off you go and acquaint yourself with the men you are to command and eat a good lunch." 

 Rolf bowed, picked up his gear and left, reading from the book Irwin had handed him. 

 Irwin sat by his desk for a few minutes before he decided to get up and get something to eat he too. As an officer, he had better rations than the common soldiery, but he didn't feel too sorry for the men. He would enjoy another stodgy meal and then go to rest a few hours on a couch in his office, only to be awoken from his afterdinner nap by the unfeeling slap of his immediate superior; the Commissar General himself, being not-so-happy over his indolent comrade-in-arms. 

 Rolf progressed quickly. He found many new friends in the company he served with and they seemed oblivious to the fact that he now was their sergeant. But what happened a week later, he could never believed. He was drilling a unit of Guard, when he saw Commissar Irwin watching. Rolf ignored him, and kept on with his drill. He had to keep focused. As he kept shouting orders to the soldiers, the men following them flawlessly, he remembered what some older Guardsman had said about Irwin. Irwin was the kind of man who had to do everything twice; to be sure he got it right. He wasn't dumb, just leisurely in his ways, never stressing too much, or at all. He had also been told that Irwin wasn't overblessed with imagination, making him a man that used feelings sparingly. Rolf had suffered one of Irwin's few bursts of anger. Irwin would be easy to like, Rolf concluded. 

 When Rolf finished the drill, Irwin had been joined by Lieutenant Kinal Kamer. Kamer was a tall, tanned man, very much like Rolf himself, but Kamer was brown-haired where Rolf had bluish-black hair and Kamer was also in his early thirties. The yellow/green camouflage uniform of the Callidussian regiments fitted him. The two officers joined the group of Guardsmen Rolf was drilling. Rolf called attention and ripped off a salute. 

 "At ease, Yarrick. Quite a show there, sergeant," Kamer said, a smile on his lips. His voice had some Invas County dialect left, but not much. "You're the sole man who've progressed as far as you have. Can you explain why?" 

 Rolf shuffled his feet. "I was given this book by Commissar Irwin, sir. Most interesting." 

 "Don't give me that!" Irwin snapped, but it was with a smile. "Tell Kamer the truth; your grand-cousin Caspar taught you a great deal of it, right?" 

 "Sir." 

 "Now," Irwin said, wiping his brow with the handkerchief. The heat hadn't abated at all these last days. But they were promising rains. "I would like you to meet someone. Come with me sergeant." 

 As Irwin tried to leave, Kamer gripped him by the arm. "Hendrik, is he really a Yarrick?" 

 Irwin looked back at the lieutenant. "Yes, he is. If you're in doubt, go to the Munitorum Main Hall, and check the tenth picture window on the left." 

 With that, Irwin left Kamer to his thoughts. 

 Rolf followed the short commissar up through the levels of the huge Munitorum building. It was damned luck that the lifts were working, or else Irwin would've had a heart attack. That was something he concluded to himself as he wiped his brow yet again. He had to lose weight. 

 "Where are we going, sir?" Rolf asked as he followed in tow. 

 "To someone who I'd like you to meet," Irwin simply replied. The two stepped out of the lift and walked towards a flight of stairs. The lifts didn't go all the way up, and Irwin cursed his commander silently. Why couldn't he have his office on the lower levels? 

 "Stay here," Irwin panted as they got to the top of the stairs. Rolf sat obediently down on a couch nearby and Irwin approached a door and knocked on it lightly. There was a moment of silence before a voice replied. 

 "Come in!" It was muffled by the trithwood door, but Irwin knew the tone despite that. He just took a few deep breaths and walked inside, gently closing the door behind himself. 

 "I hope this is important, Hendrik," Commissar General Amadeus Chomaki growled at his aide. Chomaki was sitting, leant forward, watching the vista-slate. News-sending, Irwin concluded. Chomaki never missed them. 

 "I think it can wait, sir," Irwin replied, sitting down on a chair, wiping his brow one more time. This was just silly! He HAD to lose weight. The heat was unbearable with the black uniform, but Irwin stoically refused to walk around stripped to the waist... Like for example his commander. 

 Amadeus Chomaki was a tall man, nearly two metres, in his mid-fifties with grizzled, cropped hair. He was lean and powerful, not letting the fact that he was a general destroy his physique. His face was lean and aquiline, his eyes a light grey in colour, his skin in a lighter shade of the tan that Rolf sported. Irwin knew Chomaki was Callidussian in his heritage, that explaining his skin tone. At the moment he was wearing dress trousers with his immaculately polished jackboots underneath the trousers. Just like most of his breed, he had taken off the black great coat, peaked cap and dolman's jacket, sitting in an armchair in just his white undershirt. There was a print on the shirt, Irwin noticed. He could just make out the text "Suck my...", the rest being lost, luckily perhaps. 

 "Undignified..." Irwin muttered to himself as he leant as much forward as his lunch would allow him to, catching a glimpse of the news. 

 The reporter's voice reached him. There were pictures from what seemed like a burnt-out military camp. But the report was from Invas County. 

 "...The reason to this catastrophic fire is unknown. The Adeptus Arbites are working on it as we speak. There have been rumours of that the Inquisition is involved as well. Once again we must say it: The Imperium has suffered a great loss. The famous Yarrick family's ownings ravaged by a very destructive fire. As far as investigation has gone, twenty-five bodies have been found, of which only four have been identified. Amongst these is the body of retired Imperial Commissar Caspar Yarrick and the be-headed body of a Traitor. The Inquisition has already been here, removing any evidence of the Traitor's presence. Rumours are spreading that the Dark Lord himself have trod this soil, but such thoughts are dismissed as lunacy." 

 Now they showed the face of a young man. Irwin recognised it at once. 

 "However, having had a count, not all Yarricks have perished. There is, according to the Arbiters, only one surviving Yarrick left: Rolf Yarrick. There have been no traces of the young man, but if you see him, report to the Adeptus Arbites. It should also be noted, that the famous sword that has passed through the Yarrick family since time immemorial is gone. It is unclear as to who could have taken it, but the facts point to that the missing boy..." 

 There, Chomaki turned of the vista-slate. "I can't believe it! One of the Imperium's greatest families... Gone!" He leant back in his armchair and sighed. "Can you believe it, Hendrik? Four months ago, I visited Sylvester Yarrick's wife personally, with the bad news her husband had gone. It was the first time in a great while I hugged a woman... And Caspar... Dear old Caspar... My mentor. Gone too! Although he was old, and bound to a wheelchair, he was still my mentor! This was no accident..." Chomaki lapsed into silence. Irwin thought he saw a tear streaking down Chomaki's cheek. "I knew them so well, Hendrik, I knew them so well... And Emperor knows were young Rolf is..." Chomaki looked at his friend for the first time since he'd entered. "You look like a nesting-box, Hendrik. What's the matter?" Chomaki got out of the armchair and strolled over to a tray of drinks he had. He poured himself a shot and knocked it back. Then he looked at Irwin again. "Speak out, man! What's the matter?" 

 Irwin shook his head and got out of his shocked state. "Nothing..." he lied. 

 "Oh, well then, want a drink to ease up the digestion, eh? I know you, you eat until your stomach is almost distended, greedy-guts." 

 "Thanks but no thanks, sir." Irwin replied, ignoring the insult. Chomaki often made fun out Irwin's weight problem and his living. Irwin just had problems regaining from the initial shock. What could he say, how could he put it to Chomaki that the last living Yarrick was waiting outside, with the famous sword on his back? 

 "There's a boy outside... I'd like you to meet him, sir." Irwin said at final. 

 "I don't have time to talk to a boy, Hendrik. The reforming is taking up all my time. Besides, have you found a replacement to the first sergeant in Kamer's platoon? We are in need of one." Chomaki said as he toyed a bit with the shot glass in his hand. Should he take another drink? 

 "That's why I'm here," Irwin replied, unbuttoning his dolman's jacket, giving in to the heat. He unbuttoned it over his chest at least, showing his white undershirt covered in sweat patches. "See, this young man, he's very promising, and I'd like to suggest him as first sergeant for third platoon." 

 "I thought you said he was just a boy, Hendrik?" 

 "Ah, see he is. And that is why I want you to meet him, Amadeus." 

 Chomaki looked nonplussed. Now what? he thought. "Alright, send him in, Hendrik." With that, Chomaki decided to have another shot of whiskey. He was pouring it up as Irwin went outside and told Rolf to come in. 

 Chomaki had the glass at his lips as he turned and looked straight at the tall, lanky young man with bluish hair next to his chunky second-in-command. What the frekk? 

 "May I present," Irwin said awkwardly. "Sergeant Rolf Yarrick, along with the Yarrickian sword, my suggestion for third platoon's new first sergeant." Irwin indicated the sword on Rolf's back. Chomaki said nothing. 

 His shot glass hit the floor and was split into a thousand pieces. 

**To Be Continued**


	2. Commissar General

Commissar General

_"When Chomaki fell, and Yarrick took his place, I knew I'd seen the birth of an Imperial Hero." _

**--Commissar Hendrik Irwin**

 "Sir?" There was a tad of anxiety in Hendrik Irwin's voice. He was looking at his commander, Commissar General Amadeus Chomaki, and Chomaki in turn was staring at the lanky young man next to Irwin. 

 "I... I... I..." was all that Chomaki managed. 

 Rolf was as astonished as Irwin over Chomaki's reaction. He looked at the fragments of Chomaki's shot glass. Drinking on duty? He hadn't expected that from a man as famous as Chomaki. Now Rolf remembered the face of the man that had visited his family when his father had died. It had been the same man that had stayed a while and talked to his granduncle. It had been a commissar and it had been Chomaki. Chomaki had met Rolf, but only briefly. But Rolf clearly remembered the middle-aged commissar. 

 Getting tired of the obvious stalemate, Irwin ambled over to the tray of drinks and picked up a bottle of soda water. Pouring it into a drinking glass, Irwin stood himself before his commander (now being able to read what it said on the non-regimental T-shirt Chomaki was wearing) and tossed the water into Chomaki's face. 

 "Welcome back to reality." Irwin said simply and poured the glass full of soda water again. This, however, he drank. Putting down the glass, he handed Chomaki his handkerchief, so that the commissar general could wipe his face dry of the water. Chomaki handed back the handkerchief to Irwin without even looking at the chunky man. He was still staring at Rolf, transfixed. 

 "I can't frekking believe it..." Chomaki mumbled. "Is it really you, Rolf?" 

 Rolf nodded. Yarrick threw a glance at Irwin, who now had bent down to pick up the biggest pieces of the destroyed shot glass. It was obvious it went badly on his knees and hips. 

 "Shouldn't we get someone to clean that up?" Yarrick asked cautiously. Chomaki looked down at his colleague, gripped Irwin by the collar of his shirt and pulled him upright. 

 "You shouldn't do such things, Hendrik. They're not good for your knees, nor is it suitable work for a commissar." 

 "I just removed the bigger shards," Irwin replied, holding out his hand, showing the glass fragments he'd picked up. 

 "Alright, but now, go and get a cleaner. Off you go, Hendrik." Chomaki gently shoved Irwin before himself so that he and Yarrick were left alone in Chomaki's office. Chomaki noticed Rolf's curious look. "I know, he means well, but right now, he'd only be in the way. Never met a man with so little imagination..." Chomaki sighed. 

 "So, you're here then, Rolf ma boy." Chomaki said to ease the tense feeling between the two. "I saw on the news recently what happened to your family... I'm truly grieved over it, just as you, no doubt." Chomaki looked at Rolf. The young man didn't move. Chomaki poured up some soda water in a glass and tipped a little brandy in it. He offered it to Rolf. "Take this, it'll help, I promise." 

 Rolf looked dubiously at the glass, and then took it. "I've never tasted alcohol before..." he mumbled. 

 "Then drink it slowly." Chomaki said and guided Rolf to sit down on a chair. "Then we might be able to talk about this sergeant business with you." 

 Yarrick nodded and drank the (by now) amber coloured water slowly. Chomaki picked up a data-slate that Irwin had slipped on a table. Irwin had his ways... His thumb on the scroll button, Chomaki read about Rolf. He knew full well who the lad was, and as he'd thought, he was too young for Guard. Chomaki's brow furrowed. 

 Yarrick noticed this and looked up. "I know, sir. I'm far too young for service in the Imperial Guard, no?" 

 Chomaki nodded. "Yes, but it seems Irwin has put up a display of incredible ingenuity... for him. He has suggested that we change your age to an older, until you're old enough to be officially listed. Irwin believes the Administratum won't notice, because it will only be for... three years?" Chomaki paused. "You're fifteen years old, Rolf?" 

 Rolf nodded. 

 "And I take it you're aiming for a career as an Imperial Guard officer?" Chomaki asked, putting down the data-slate. Rolf nodded again. 

 "I have a suggestion, Rolf. Instead of becoming an Imperial Guard officer, how about becoming a commissar?" Chomaki noticed Rolf's shocked look. "I know, it sounds crazy. But I mean it. Caspar had only praise for you, Rolf. You seem to be a bright boy, and according to Caspar, you're a-" 

 "I know what you're going to say, sir. Please don't say it. My mother wasn't too happy about it. Neither was my father. It was only Caspar who liked it. And I'm not too fond of it either. At school I've been called..." Rolf hesitated a moment. He didn't want to say it... 

 "Mutant?" Chomaki tried. 

 "Wolf." 

 Chomaki looked shocked. He remembered how Caspar had told about the werewolf children that cursed his family, but he'd thought it to be just a story. Something to scare children with. But he had to admit; there was something lupine over Rolf. He doubted in every way that Rolf was a half-breed, as Caspar had told him, instead he believed Rolf to be something far more. Chomaki knew the Legend of the Eagle, the Wolf and the Hound of Chaos as well as any other educated individual in the Imperium. But he also knew the life history of Hrodwulf Le'man, told to him by eager Yarricks when visiting their home to see Caspar. They were proud over their past, and ever more proud of Hrodwulf, the first Imperial Saint. He had died at an incredible age: over three hundred years old, and it was long before the Space Marine Legions had been formed. A legend amongst legends: that had been Hrodwulf Le'man. Was Chomaki seeing this incredible human reborn? He doubted it, but to hope is always fun. 

 But how to tell the young lad this? Chomaki decided not to. Instead, he was going to take a new turn, as there was a light knock on the door, and the cleaner came in. It was a hunched man, wearing a cowl over his head. Chomaki knew who it was. 

 "Hello there Skuli," Chomaki said and smiled down at the hunched figure. The cowl turned up to look at the commissar general. A pair of yellow cat's eyes looked back from inside the cowl. They seemed surprised first, but later had a milder tone to them. Skuli smiled. 

 "Good afternoon, master Chomaki," Skuli said. His voice was disturbingly hoarse, but it didn't seem made-up or strained. "I'm just here to take away those nasty glass shards Commissar Irwin told me about." 

 "It was just a mistake. The young lad here surprised me." Chomaki gestured to Rolf. Skuli looked up from his doings and studied the young man. 

 "You're that boy on the tele-slate, right? You must miss your family." Skuli said and went on with his duty. 

 Rolf stared at the creature. "He's a mutant?" 

 Chomaki stared at Rolf. Skuli stopped working and stared first at Chomaki and then on Rolf, his eyes glazed. "Yes, Skuli is a mutant and I don't like it..." 

 "But you're a kind mutant, Skuli. You help us humans, don't you?" Chomaki said and knelt down beside Skuli and put a hand on his shoulder. 

 "Yes, I am a nice guy." Skuli said and snivelled silently. Chomaki looked at Rolf. 

 "He doesn't like to be reminded of his impurity, see." Chomaki turned to Skuli. "Skuli, show Rolf here your face." 

 Reluctantly, Skuli removed the cowl and turned to face Rolf. Rolf had expected to see a face distorted beyond recognition, but Skuli's was remarkably human. So, he had cat's eyes, fangs and quills instead of hair. He had only three fingers, and his feet seemed made for climbing, with two toes, and a thumb-like third toe and his skin was in a greenish hue. But overall, Skuli seemed very human. He looked a tad like a lizard, but otherwise there was no ugliness to his face. 

 "For this, the Inquisition would kill him." Chomaki said and gestured towards Skuli's face. A few seconds later, Skuli pulled the cowl back up. "But, I am generous. I saved Skuli from certain death, with the promise to make a fine Imperial citizen of him. He's just as smart as you and me, he just... has his looks against him." 

 Skuli had finished his work and left, excusing himself. 

 Left alone again, Chomaki turned to Rolf. "In a way, you and Skuli aren't very different, right? It's just that his mutation is visible in a different way. And I've had enough of that hypocrisy! I've learned everybody else in this regiment to accept that Skuli is one of my best aides, helping me with many things, and he's ferociously loyal." 

 "He has his reasons, doesn't he, sir?" Rolf said and emptied the last of the soda/brandy. 

 "Yes, of course." Chomaki said silently and sat down. "Now, Rolf, what do you think of becoming a commissar cadet instead of officer?" 

 "I don't know what to think, sir. It's an honour, of course, but I'm not trained in the Schola Progenum." 

 "Why should that prevent you from becoming a cadet? Now, I have enough influence in the Commissariat to do this kind of thing. They've been nagging me a while to take up a cadet, but I've refused, or they haven't simply allowed me to have a cadet. But now that you've entered my life..." Chomaki shrugged. "It just seems natural." 

 Yarrick nodded. This was more than he could imagine. "But, how will I become a cadet commissar?" 

 "You prove yourself in battle. I have no doubt of Hendrik's judgement of people. Although he happens to be a bit of a gourmand, he knows what he's doing when he suggests promotions. And you must be special indeed to make him choose you as your father's replacement. Of all things..." 

 "My father was first sergeant in Lieutenant Kamer's platoon?" Rolf asked, genuinely surprised. 

 "Yes, and a good one too. He was taken by nothing less than a Berzerker Champion. Brave man. And in a way, it's my way of seeing if you are worthy of cadet hood, Rolf. See, Kamer's platoon happens to be the mechanised wing of the 27th." 

 "I see..." 

 "Good that you do." Chomaki looked at his timepiece. "Almost time for my little afternoon stroll." Chomaki saw Rolf's wondering look. "I like to exercise and keep in shape. Otherwise I'd look like Irwin, wouldn't I? Nothing ill about him, but he's a bit... weighty, right?" 

 Rolf tried to hide a smile. "I guess so, sir." 

 "Now, Rolf, remember that my door is always open for you. Have any problems or questions, ask me. Even if it so concerns your family, because I knew your father and your grand cousin very well." 

 Rolf stopped in the doorway. "You knew Uncle Caspar?" 

 "Rolf, he was my mentor; the man that made me a commissar. I owed him much." Chomaki bit back to talk about a strange prophesy he'd been given once. 

 "Well, then," Rolf said and walked out. "Have a nice day, sir." 

 Chomaki watched the young man leave and sighed silently to himself. 

 "Damn you, McKenzie. You're always right, you frekk." Chomaki mumbled silently to himself. 

************************************

 Time passed quickly in the Guard for Rolf Yarrick. He couldn't believe that time would go that quickly. Most of the time was waiting anyway. Waiting for battle, orders and the like. A dog's life. The life of a dog-soldier, a ground-pounder... An infantryman. He progressed too. Rolf soon proved worthy of even higher command than first sergeant. Chomaki wasn't slow to recognise this. When Kimal Kamer finally fell in battle (gutted by a Berzerker's chainsword), Chomaki promoted Rolf Yarrick to lieutenant over third platoon. 

 In the three years that passed until his eighteenth birthday, Yarrick was hardened and sharpened by the Fires of Battle and the Anvil of War. Rolf received his promotion to lieutenant at his seventeenth year, although Chomaki and Irwin were the only ones who knew how old he truly was. The Imperial Arbiters had been informed of Rolf Yarrick's whereabouts, and as soon as that was cleared up, the Yarrick family slaughter was quieted down. 

 Indeed, Rolf fought many battles at his tender age, honing his skills with the family sword and becoming a terrifying opponent to meet in close combat. Irwin and Chomaki knew of Rolf's gene strand, and they watched as Rolf grew up, and became taller, quicker and stronger for every day. They both knew they were on to something. But still, Rolf cared but for one thing: To become the warrior to be the Dark Lord's match! 

 Things started to shape up for Rolf Yarrick nearly two months after his eighteenth birthday. Irwin had notified Rolf early that he'd switched back the true age information on Rolf. But that was months ago. This was now, and now he had been called to Chomaki's room on the great big transport ship. They were in orbit of Elysion, the crystal planet, to give the Callidussian regiments some days off from the killing and slaughter. 

 On his way to Chomaki's office, Rolf passed Irwin. He liked the man, as he'd thought. Irwin was easy to like. He was perhaps a bit leisurely in his ways, but he was at heart a kind soul. But Rolf knew full well how heartlessly Irwin could kill the minions of the Dark. And, despite being overweight, Irwin had turned out to be very agile, his chain-sword being where the enemy was the softest. Yarrick had started fencing against Irwin, but after only a few months, Rolf had proved the better and shoved Irwin over his shoulder in one of the training sessions, breaking one of Irwin's wrists. 

 Irwin walked up to Rolf. "So, you have been called up to Amadeus, eh? Day of Judgement," Irwin said and smiled. A rare expression for him. Irwin rarely showed emotions. 

 Rolf looked down on the rotund little man. "I believe so, sir. But I doubt I'd fail. Do you?" 

 Irwin shook his head as he walked along with Rolf. Rolf slowed down a bit, so that Irwin could keep up. Rolf measured just over two metres ten now. Irwin was just under one metre seventy and rather round over the belly now. There was no denying for Irwin now that he was going fat. Rolf had seen Irwin in battle, yes, but it wasn't often, and only on engagements with Berzerkers, not otherwise. Rolf guessed Irwin was tied up with tedious regimental and political stuff most of the time, and thus he didn't move around much. Rolf felt very sorry for the man. He knew how pained Irwin was by his knees and hips. Rolf had talked to the regimental doctor and gotten the answer that Irwin had been told to lose weight, but didn't. Rolf felt he was the only one that cared for the poor man; being caught in a downwards spiral that ended with death. 

 "How are you, Hendrik?" Rolf asked, concern in his tenor voice. 

 "As usual; my knees ache every single minute. So do my hips and my back. And I'm not getting younger." The short man sighed heavily. He looked up at Rolf, as if reading the young man's thoughts. "I just can't lose weight. I just can't." 

 Irwin left Rolf by Chomaki's office. Rolf watched the squat man shamble off. Irwin had his head bowed as he walked, in deep thought it seemed. 

 "Or depression..." Rolf mumbled silently to himself before knocking on the door. Hearing Chomaki's reply, he went in and closed the door. 

 "Ah, there you are, Lieutenant." Chomaki said and turned, beaming. "Sit down, by all means." Chomaki gestured towards a chair.

 Rolf sat down obediently. "Sir?" 

 Chomaki thumbed a bit on a paper he was holding. "I submitted this to the Imperial Commissariat more than a month ago, and now it is signed and ready. Read it yourself." Chomaki handed over the paper to Rolf. Rolf looked at it, brow furrowed. It was written in High Gothic, a language he knew naught about. He knew what it was, of course, but he couldn't read it. He handed it back to Chomaki with a shrug. 

 "I can't read it, sir. I'm sorry, but I don't understand High Gothic." 

 "Then I'll read it for you," Chomaki said and held it up in a suitably solemn way. "I'll skip the boring bits in the beginning, and just read their reply, okay?" 

 Rolf shrugged. 

 "Right..." Chomaki cleared his throat for measure. "It is hereby decreed, by the Will of the Emperor Most Holy, that Commissar and General over the Callidussian 25th, 26th, 27th, 28th and 29th; Amadeus Viktor Chomaki has the right to accept Imperial Guard Lieutenant of the Callidussian 27th's 3rd platoon 1st company, Hrodwulf, that's High Gothic for Rolf (apparently), Yarrick as Cadet Commissar. The training period is as listed by the Creeds and Edicts of the Imperial Commissariat, i.e. I have you as cadet as long as I consider you to be in need of training. When the training period is over, when I say you're ready Rolf, the induction into the Imperial Commissariat by the subject must be supervised by named tutor and a member of the Administratum." 

 Chomaki paused. "There's more, Rolf: Should the subject, you, fail in any way that the tutor deems as severe, the tutor has the right to mete out punishment as he/she sees fit... " Chomaki paused again. "That means that if you screw up, and I catch you doing it, I have the right to take back the rank as cadet commissar. Should the... crime be of a lighter state, I have the right to send you to a penal legion, where you most surely will serve as some sort of riot control." 

 "Does it read that? With riot control?" Rolf asked anxiously. 

 "Not really, but it is what they mean." Chomaki put down the paper. "So, what do you think, Rolf? I am now your tutor. And you're my first cadet. They haven't allowed me before due to 'unorthodox' proceedings. Seems they've given up finally." 

 Rolf sat silent a good while. So, he was a commissar cadet now. The galaxy would be at his feet if he succeeded in this training... It would be hard, it would be craving, but he was ready. Contemplating this a while, Rolf then looked up Chomaki in anticipation. 

 "I see you're waiting for something..." Chomaki said and smiled. "Come with me, then, cadet Yarrick." 

 Rolf would savour the sound of his newfound rank for hours to come, rolling the sound in his head. He liked it. 

 Chomaki and Yarrick walked with each other down to the belly of the huge transport. An Imperial Guard regiment wasn't just soldiers. It was a whole lot like a circus; there were cooks, barbers, tailors and others accompanying it. Rolf followed Chomaki to one of the tailors. 

 "Now," Chomaki said as they entered the tailor's office. "We need to get you a suitable uniform, right? And," Chomaki said and picked down a size-58 peaked cap from its stand. "The right headgear." He handed the peaked cap to Rolf, who tried it out. Putting it squarely on his head, he looked at himself in a mirror while Chomaki went to fetch the officers' tailor. The cap was in the yellow/green camouflage of the Callidussian regiments with a plastic black peak and red lining on the top. It was fitted with a pair of holes on the side, just above the ears. Rolf guessed them to be for brass braids, for those that held such high rank. He studied himself; Rolf liked the cap already. It gave him... something he couldn't put his finger on. It wasn't charisma... it was something more. 

 Chomaki came back with the tailor, tearing Rolf from his thoughts. 

 "Here he is, Yosef. Cadet Commissar Rolf Yarrick." Chomaki said and gestured to Rolf. Rolf looked at the small, thin man accompanying the commissar general. He was grey-haired and wore small glasses. Behind the glasses a pair of genial, brown eyes looked back. 

 "Ah, you've found a tall and athletic young man, Amadeus!" the tailor exclaimed. He stuck out a gnarled hand to Rolf. "I am Tailor Yosef Kylraun, but all officers know me as Yosef." 

 Rolf took the hand and shook it. There was something strangely reassuring with Kylraun. 

 "Now, I need to take some measures on you. Unlike the foot soldiers, officers have the privilege of tailored uniforms, which will fit you like a glove. Other officers are also quite good at filling out their uniforms... so to speak." Kylraun glanced quickly to Chomaki, who tried to hide a smile. They both knew whom Kylraun referred to. Kylraun pulled out his tape measure. "Now... let's see." 

 He tapped a tiny microphone by his cheek, so he would be able to record the measurements and write them down later. He spoke softly as he calmly and with used hands measured Rolf from top to bottom. As he finished, Kylraun tapped the microphone again and beamed up at Rolf. 

 "There you go, sonny!" Kylraun turned to Chomaki. "The usual, Amadeus? Black leather greatcoat, black twill dolman's jacket and breeches?" 

 Chomaki looked thoughtful. He studied the peaked cap that still was on Rolf's head. "No, make it camouflage, as the rest of the Callidussian. I just can't imagine Rolf here in a black uniform, for some reason..." Chomaki scratched his head. "What do you think, Rolf?" 

 "I-" Rolf began but was abruptly cut short by a rushed aide. 

 "Commissar General, we have a major brawl in the 29th's 5th company's troop deck! Knives and bayonets have come out!" 

 Chomaki rose and put on his peaked cap. "Have the regimental commissars been informed?" 

 "Yes, but it wasn't enough!" 

 Chomaki stormed out, cursing freely in Callidussian, with the aide in tow, leaving Rolf behind. Rolf stood where he stood with the tailor. 

 "Does this happen often?" Rolf asked. 

 "Mostly when we are in transit like this..." Kylraun replied, looking up from his scribbling. "You should get used to it. This is part of a commissar's daily work. To maintain discipline." 

 "But I'm a cadet now; why didn't he take me with him?" 

 "You heard the aide, boy. Weapons had been drawn, and most surely blood too." 

 Rolf sagged down on a chair. "I feel left out." 

 "Can't say I feel sorry for you," Kylraun replied simply from his desk. "Now, Chomaki didn't want you to have a black uniform. That's odd. What would you like? Camouflage?" 

 Rolf nodded slowly. "Yes, but skip the breeches and the dolman's jacket. Just the coat." 

 Kylraun looked up, surprise in his eyes. "Why?" 

 "I don't know... I have a feeling they'll hamper my movement... and I rely on my agility when I fight." 

 Kylraun chuckled. "Can't argue over such a good reason... Only the coat then? And that cap?" 

 Rolf removed the cap from his head. "Yes, I like it." He handed the cap to Kylraun. 

 "Thank you, sir." Kylraun said as he took the cap and put a tag on it with the label 'ComCadYar'. "You should know, it's not often I get such a well-trained man here. Chomaki excepted of course." 

 "You are referring to Irwin, Yosef?" Rolf said and had a dark look in his eyes. Kylraun noticed this. 

 "As the officers' tailor, I can't go by without noticing that Commissar Irwin has become rather plump these last seven years. It's especially noticeable around his waist." 

 "That of course, but it is of no good to make fun out of him. I heard your... gibe. You and Chomaki, you have no idea of how much pain Irwin is in, both physically and psychologically. He can't help himself. Irwin happens to be a buoyant man at heart, but it's apparent he isn't anymore." 

 Kylraun looked stumped. "Commissar Irwin has looked quite... depressed lately, now when you mention it." 

 Rolf took up his officer's jacket from the chair he'd been sitting on and put the jacket on. He didn't button it though. "There are times, Yosef, when I believe myself to be the only one to care about Commissar Irwin's well-being, besides the regimental doctor. And there are times like this, that confirm that rule." Rolf walked over to the door and looked over his shoulder before walking out. "Irwin is no less human than me or you, Yosef. So stop making fun out of him, despite that he happens to be a bit rotund." 

 With that, Rolf left the tailor to his work and his thoughts. 

*********************************

 Wearing his long camouflage coat and the peaked cap tucked under arm, Rolf entered the officers' mess. The air was tense with anticipation. Chomaki had informed them all that they were to attack the Berzerkers on the planet Kiitar. Rolf couldn't say he didn't belong to those that longed for the battle. He longed to fight against the heretics and to show them what the Imperial Guard could do. Six years had passed since he joined the Imperial Guard. It had been six years since he'd seen Callidus. In some way, he missed it and never wanted to go back at the same time. 

 Taking the beaker full of steaming caffeine from the stand, Rolf walked off in thoughts. Just six hours left before landfall. They would have assistance from the Sister Sororitas. Rolf had heard the other officers call them Nuns with Guns, but he refrained from such. He didn't find satisfaction in such things like others did. The officers of course thought themselves witty, but Rolf didn't agree. He had seen enough of their 'wit' over the years. For how much he admired Chomaki, the man couldn't be funny except at others' expense, especially Irwin's. 

 Rolf found Irwin sitting all by himself by a table. He had perhaps a dozen data-slates before himself and a cup of coffee. Rolf steered towards where Irwin was sitting and sat down next to the rotund man. In the last three years Irwin had perhaps put on another seven kilos and he'd gotten himself quite a potbelly now. Coming into his forties, Irwin's hair had already begun greying at his temples. It was obvious that Chomaki burdened Irwin with political and bureaucratic work, and it was equally obvious that the little man didn't like it. But instead of complaining, he performed the tasks given to him with perfection. 

 Irwin barely noticed Rolf when the young man sat down next to him. He continued working with the data-slate he was holding. After a good five minutes, he put it away and leaned backwards, one hand on his capacious belly, the other one gripping the beaker of caffeine. After sipping it, Irwin closed his eyes and sighed, and then looked at Rolf. 

 "Good afternoon, Rolf," Irwin said and tried a smile. Rolf saw clearly that Irwin's eyes were bloodshot and puffy from lack of sleep. 

 "'Afternoon, Hendrik," Rolf replied, trying to hide his concern for the man. It didn't work. "You look like you need sleep, sir." 

 "Indeed I do," Irwin replied and put the beaker back down. "But I must finish these things first. Chomaki expects it from me." 

 Rolf sneered. "Are they more important than your well-being?" 

 "Well... I don't think so..." Irwin said and looked bewildered. "What's your point?" 

 "My point is..." Rolf said and put a hand on Irwin's shoulder. "That you need rest, a lot of rest, Irwin. You're pushing yourself too hard. And it's not good for you, I can see that." Rolf put his cap on his head and started gathering together the data-slates in front of Irwin. The squat man seemed immensely pained by this. 

 "Rolf, what are you doing? Just a few more hours and I would've been finished." 

 Rolf gave Irwin a stern look. "I'll tell Chomaki that he must find some other commissars to do this for him, or maybe an Administratum clerk. But not you, Hendrik!" Seeing Irwin's startled look, Rolf explained. "You need to rest, Hendrik. You've been pushing your body too far and you only have one of that. I have seen how you've changed over the years. I met a slightly plump man six years ago. It was a man with rosy cheeks and a buoyant way. Now, that man has become pasty and grown one big potbelly. I just do this for your best, Hendrik. I do it because I care for your welfare and health, and both have fared ill lately." 

 Rolf stood up, cradling the many data-slates in his arms. "Come, I'll take you to your quarters, so you can get some well-deserved sleep. I'll dump these in Chomaki's office and tell him to put someone else than you on it." 

 Irwin got up from his chair, with a little effort and a groan, and shambled after Rolf, who walked with a secure stride. Irwin almost had to jog after Rolf, who seemed to very agitated over the situation at hand. This wasn't made better than that Rolf heard yet another gibe aimed against Irwin. Rolf spun round and fixed the man who'd uttered the insult with a stare that could've cut through adamantium. It was another commissar. Rolf felt disgusted over the fact. 

 "Rolf, don't..." Irwin advised, but it was too late. Rolf stalked over to the commissar. It was a pug-nosed, blond man in his mid-forties with broad shoulders. Rolf recognised the character. Noble blood from some Hive World, Rolf thought contemptuously. Snooty ass. 

 "Commissar Grauberger..." Rolf growled, as threatening as a plasma weapon. "Do you enjoy yourself insulting others?" 

 "Cadet Yarrick, I have no idea of what you're talking about. I just made a fine statement about comrade Irwin's physical state." Grauberger replied indifferently. 

 "Do you believe I'd take it as such? Do you believe he'd take it as such?" Rolf leaned closer to the man. Grauberger didn't flinch. He looked past Rolf, at the tubby Commissar Hendrik Irwin, who seemed mildly worried over Rolf's behaviour. 

 "I don't think-" Grauberger began. 

 "No, you don't think, and that's is a fact of life!" Rolf snapped. Irwin tried to hide his smile over the caustic remark. "Have you become so hardened by battle, that you can't even show simple commiseration towards others? Or maybe the problem is elsewhere? Maybe it's due to the fact that you never have known common soldiery and people well enough to care for them, eh?" Rolf made a rude remark over Grauberger's heritage and his mother's private life. 

 Grauberger lost some of his indifferent cool, because he went a bit red around the edges. "Now listen you little-" 

 As Grauberger got up, he noticed how much taller Rolf was than himself. Standing nearly thirty centimetres taller than the broad-shouldered commissar, Rolf Yarrick spread respect around himself. Grauberger faltered and lost his edge towards the two metres fifteen tall man. This was all Rolf needed. "As you seem to have gotten to senses, Karl Grauberger, I give you this to work with." Rolf handed over the dozen data-slates and Grauberger couldn't do more than accept them and sit back down. He put the data-slates on the table he shared with four other commissars. They all looked at Rolf, attentively. Something was not entirely right with this cadet. He wasn't meant to instil such fear in them, was he?

 "Chomaki expects those to be done by the time we make the planet fall. Good afternoon, gentlemen." 

 With that, Rolf left the officers' mess in a march, Irwin ambling after, a new buoyancy to his gait. 

 Rolf followed Irwin to his quarters and made sure that the short man came to bed. Irwin almost fell asleep as soon as he lay down on his sheets. 

 After that, Rolf went back to his own quarters and started polishing up his sword. He knew, somewhere deep inside himself, that the mere shine would frighten the followers of the Dark. 

"Behold, the might of the Emperor's Imperial Guard!" Chomaki said as he gestured around himself. He and Rolf were standing on a small hill, in the middle of the Callidussian regiments. "Almost brings tears to your eyes, no?" 

 "Almost," Rolf said, not the least bit amused. He'd seen the scene before, and wasn't impressed. Besides, he was eager for battle. 

 Rolf was clad in his battle-dress, as was Chomaki. The exception between the two was that Chomaki's uniform was black, where as Rolf's was camouflaged. Chomaki also had the pips of a general; Rolf had that of a cadet commissar. And that Chomaki was equipped with a bolt pistol and a power sword, and Rolf carried a lasgun and the sword of his family. 

 "Come, Rolf," Chomaki said and walked down the hill. "Now we'll show these scum the might of the Imperial Guard!" 

 After a short re-brief of orders with the colonels of the regiments, Chomaki played out his plan. The Berzerkers had dug in hard, thanks to the help of local cultists. Chomaki had said they had a name: Kathlas Cult, worshippers of the blasphemy known as Khorne. 

 With the armoured 25th and the mechanized 27th, Chomaki formed a spearhead with his forces. The light 26th and 28th had the role as flanking parties together with the Sister Sororitas, which were under the command of Canoness Nazerine Almita. The 29th, an ordinarily equipped Guard regiment, with its share of heavies, scout troops and tanks, formed a rear guard as it numbered nearly four thousand soldiers. With the command from the commissar general given, the army advanced. 

 Rolf, sitting in the rocking belly of a Chimera transport, remembered the briefing just before landfall. The Berzerkers numbered barely a hundred here. The net around Armageddon was closing and, Emperor willing, the Hive World would be liberated within the decade. Rolf looked forward to that. Perhaps he would be present at the liberation of the famous Hive World; perhaps he'd be elsewhere. Who knew? 

 Looking up, Rolf saw straight into the face of a young Guardsman, not older than himself. Rolf smiled, trying to encourage the man with such a simple emotion. There was no need for words. It seemed to work, because the man brightened up a bit and nodded with a secure face at the commissar cadet. 

 Now Rolf realized what he meant to the soldiers. And what Chomaki meant to them all. He had been like a father to Rolf, yes, but he was equally as much father to the men of the Callidussian regiments he controlled. 

 There was a chime in the Chimera transport and the large APC lurched to a halt. Rolf knew what awaited now. The Guardsmen stood up and checked their weapons, pressing their bodies against the hull of the transport. Rolf pulled out his lasgun, a weapon he'd tampered slightly with, giving it a higher discharge. He held it in both hands, just like the Guardsmen around him did. 

 The back hatch of the transport opened slowly. They all knew to wait. And it was not in vain, as a spatter of lasfire rained into the tank. The turrent of the tank swivelled round and shot a searing blue beam of multilaser fire into the Kathlas ranks. After a few bursts of laser, the large smoke grenades it carried were shot off and gave the eleven transported men a chance to get out. 

 The squad with Rolf was far from alone. One thousand Imperial Guard stormed out of their Chimera transports. Throwing a look backwards as he ran, Rolf saw perhaps a good dozen of burnt out wrecks of Chimeras and perhaps seven destroyed Leman Russ MBTs. The enemy had support weapons. 

 Jumping down in a trench, Rolf broke the neck of one cultist with the stock of lasrifle. He exploded five others with quick controlled bursts of his lasrifle and ordered the squad he was with to fix bayonets, fast as frekk. The Chimeras had been closer than they'd calculated. 

 Rolf pulled out his own, silver gleaming sword and charged against the enemy, lasrifle held one-handed. He knew he was in the thickest fighting, and Rolf found himself delighted over this. 

 "Let them burn in the very pits of Hell!" Rolf screamed as he thrust forward and speared a Kathlas on his sword. Not bothering to pull it put, Rolf swept round in a wide arch of death, spilling out the enemies entrails on the muddy ground in the trench. 

 A few minutes later, and they were advancing into the next trench. This kept going as they reached the wall of the city the Berzerkers held. Losses were horrendous to both sides. Rolf knew, however, that Chomaki had counted on this, and that this perhaps was the best way, despite the losses. And still, they'd met no Berzerkers. But Rolf knew better than to contemplate the archenemy's tactics. 

 Cutting, thrusting, parrying, he made his way towards the city walls, always sure that he had cover to his flanks. There is no better example of textbook stupidity than to go so far that you get cut off from you own forces. He made sure he kept within vox-range, so that he could pick up Chomaki's orders. 

 If the trenches had been hard, the walls were nigh on impossible. The Guard found themselves being pushed against an enemy that could take everything they threw at them. Rolf felt a tinge of dismay in him over this seemingly impassable point. And it was in this dismay that one of his first 'make-up-as-I-go' battle plans formed. He called up his vox-officer. 

 "Eaglet to Eagle, over." Rolf called. 'Eaglet' was Guard slang for commissar cadets and Chomaki had found it fun to call Rolf this on missions. He adapted the name Eagle himself, after his looks and his Callidussian name. 

 "I read you Eaglet." Chomaki's voice frazzled back. Seemed the general used a personal vox-booster. 

 "The walls are impassable, I repeat, the walls are impassable, over." 

 "As hell they are! Never say die, Eaglet! Over." 

 "They are, Eagle. Face it. But I have an idea. Over." 

 There was a moment of silence before Chomaki's voice came back. "What sort of idea?" 

 "It's crazy as hell, but it is the only way I believe, sir. I want you to pull back the forces to..." Rolf consulted a chart he had in a coat pocket. "Map section F2-F22." 

 "Go on." 

 "Then we call up Major Markere's Basilisks." 

 Chomaki chuckled over the vox-link. "I like that! Good thinking, Eaglet." 

 The order was sounded. Without warning, the Imperial forces fell back and gave up a good three hundred metres. The Kathlas forces wondered why this was and sent out eight hundred men to reclaim the trenches the Guard had given up... 

 ...And walked straight into a barrage laid down by the twenty Basilisk support weapons of the Callidussian 25th. The power these guns have and the devastation they make is hard to believe. Each shell weighs a good six hundred kilos and the calibre of the gun muzzles are nearly forty centimetres. Few things can survive the barrage laid down by a Basilisk company. Not even cockroaches. The cannons are capable of hurtling shells beyond the horizon if needed, but when such force is used, the gun platforms have to be steadied on the ground with either special 'legs' or they are dismounted from their Chimera based tank hulls and refitted to the ground and nailed there for good with six centimetre thick bolts. 

 However, the Basilisks that roared this day had no need of being nailed to the ground. They fired their shells a good two kilometres without problem, blowing the enemy forces in the trenches to bits and razing the walls surrounding the city. 

 This is what Imperial Guard officers mean when they speak of the Mailed Fist. The armoured might that the Imperial Guard can bring to bear is as effective as a planetary bombardment, as subtle as a sledgehammer. 

 For an hour the angry roars of prehistorical beasts could be heard; the roar of angry Basilisks. When the barrage finally died away, nothing was left of the city walls. Nor of the Kathlas force sent out to reclaim the ground. 

 Before the smoke from the shelling had dissipated, the Imperial Guard charged once again, the Sister Sororitas advancing with them. Under the covering fire of Leman Russ Exterminators and Conquerors, the Imperial Guard regiments with their heritage from Callidus, assaulted the city. 

 Rolf was with his commander and tutor for the first time since they landfall. Rolf's gleaming adamantium sword sliced the Kathlas in two by the ghostly blue sheen from Chomaki's power sword. 

 Once inside the raised city walls, the Callidussian Guardsmen and the Sister Sororitas met fierce resistance from the Kathlas, who were suddenly joined in by Berzerker renegades. Rolf engaged a squad of Berzerkers head on, whirling and dodging out of the way of their crude chain weapons. His sword passed through helmets and throats, leaving no more than a very deep cut and mortal wounding. Although once Space Marine and now infused with unholy wrath and bloodlust, the Berzerkers didn't stand a chance against the determined young man with the pins of a commissar cadet. Rolf had sworn to the Dark Lord to become his match, and it seemed he was a good bit on the way. Not even the champion leading the squad of renegades stood a chance. After a short combat between the two, Rolf lunged forward, thrusting his sword into the chest of the warrior of blood. 

 Rolf checked himself. They weren't far from the heart of the city now: the main stronghold of the Kathlas and undoubtly the heart of the taint too. Yarrick and Chomaki pressed on, the two outmatching any opponent they met. Things went smoothly, until the black tower that was the heart of Kiitari Port loomed before them. The defence put up by the Kathlas was tripled, and the Imperial Guard was beginning to feel the press. But Chomaki urged them on, a tremendous charismatic presence amongst the Imperials. Yarrick's presence helped too, of course, but there was something holding together the Kathlas as efficiently as Chomaki and Yarrick held together the Guard. Rolf had a vague feeling he knew what it was. 

 After two hours of fierce battle, the Imperial Guard finally broke the will of the Kathlas, and the cult fled, the Sister Sororitas chasing after in hot pursuit. But there were still Berzerker elements at large in the city. The battle was far from over... 

 Rolf slumped down by a wall. His coat was torn and he was covered in blood. No battle he'd ever fought had been this fierce. This was not ordinary behaviour for cultists. They'd held out twice as long as Chomaki had expected. And when they broke, it hadn't been in a rout. It had been a controlled and steady fall back in some way. And the Berzerkers were oddly enough still holding out. Chomaki said he'd expected them to disappear as soon as odds turned against them, but it seemed they were going to fight to the last man... or whatever. 

 "Taking a breather?" a strangely familiar voice said by Yarrick's side, and Rolf looked round. He saw Irwin sitting there, chainsword in hand, purring. 

 "Aren't you supposed to be asleep, Irwin?" Rolf growled. 

 "Perhaps..." Irwin seemed thoughtful. "But something tells me I should be here. I just couldn't sleep. I have a gut feeling something bad will happen, Rolf. And in my case, there's a lot of gut." 

 Yarrick smiled. Irwin didn't usually pull a joke about himself, so this had to be a real feeling. 

 "To tell you the truth, Rolf," Irwin said and looked round the corner of the building they were hiding by. "Skuli had the same feeling... And I can only say I don't usually trust that guy..." 

 Rolf stood up behind Irwin and looked over the tubby man towards the huge black basilica looming before them. "Because he's a mutant?" 

 Irwin didn't reply to this, and Rolf knew full well why. Irwin was like all other commissars when it concerned Skuli, with Chomaki and Yarrick being the exception for the poor creature. Irwin rejected the creature and was extraordinary open to show this. 

 "I don't like this..." Rolf muttered, indicating the basilica. "I'll take that building myself, if I have to." 

 "Be my guest." Irwin said and smirked. 

 Rolf looked down on the short man. "And you're coming with me, sir." 

 Irwin looked shocked at the lanky youth, because Rolf was still tall and wiry, despite growing older. He didn't seem to have filled out with the adult muscles that people did. "What did you say, Rolf?" 

 "You heard me, sir. You're coming with me. Chomaki wants the basilica to be taken by sunset. And that's soon. He'll personally lead an assault form the east." 

 Irwin gulped. He wasn't afraid of combat, he was a commissar after all, but to run over the street before them was a gauntlet with lethal outcome if you tripped. To get perforated by las-shots was not a good way to go. "I'm no sprinter, Rolf, you know that." 

 "I san see that..." Rolf mumbled silently. The remark passed Irwin by and Rolf was happy for it. Rolf didn't usually make such remarks, but couldn't hold back this once. Rolf cocked his head suddenly and listened to the incoming vox-traffic in his ear. 

 "Get ready, sir. Chomaki is about to launch his assault, and we have 27th's 4th company's 5th platoon at our service." 

 "Makes little difference to me..." Irwin muttered. He sheathed his chain sword and pulled out his hellpistol. "I'll cover you first." 

 "Sir..." 

 "No buts. Rolf, when the signal comes, you sprint across and cover me. Vox the soldiers that reach the other side to do the same to their comrades, understood?" 

 "Sir." Yarrick said and nodded. When Chomaki's signal came, Rolf was up and sprinting across the wide street, reaching the far end the fastest of all. He pulled out his lasgun and went down on his belly. He voxed the members of fifth platoon to do the same as they got over. He put his lasgun on semi-automatic and fired covering fire down the street. Rolf saw a man drop down by the corner of his eye. It was a man in his middle-thirties, thickset but tall and muscled. He was carrying a missile launcher. 

 "Commissar cadet?" he said as he crouched down beside Rolf. 

 "Where's your loader?" Rolf asked instinctively. 

 "Got nabbed by the las," the man said and looked pained. "I just have a few fragmentation missiles left..." 

 "All we need." Rolf said and got up. He pulled out a frag missile from one of the soldier's ammunition pouches, primed it and slammed it home in the tube-like weapon. "Make them duck, that's all we need, trooper." 

 "Consider it done, Cadet Yarrick!" the man said and grinned as he aimed the support weapon. As he pulled the trigger, there was a whoosh and a trail of smoke as the rocket went away. It slammed home and screams could be heard from the enemy lines, along with the pinging sound of the ricocheting slivers of metal from the missile. 

 Rolf turned his head towards the road. He saw Irwin running across the street best he could, and felt nothing but pain in his heart over the man's constitution. It wasn't helped up that a las-shot winged Irwin in the arm, but Irwin kept on moving, determined to get to the other side. 

 The short commissar sagged to the ground as he reached the other side, clutching his burnt arm. Rolf bent down by him, wanting to examine the wound, but Irwin resisted. 

 "It's just a flesh wound, leave it be," he groaned, apparently in great pain. "It's nothing, hear me?" 

 "It's not just nothing, sir." Rolf said and held Irwin firm. By now, the field medic of fifth platoon dropped down by them as well. Rolf gestured to Irwin, and the medic understood. Rolf advanced into the basilica along with two squads of Imperial Guard. With these squads was the missile launcher armed trooper, a man named Ynker, Rolf learned later. He was a courageous fellow, Yarrick felt. So were they all to follow along into Emperor-knows-what that hid inside of the basilica? 

 He looked around. It was a huge building indeed. But all Imperial iconography had been stripped down. Statues, altar, and curtains: everything carrying Imperial marks. Not an Aquila as far as the eye could see. All covered in the crude scriptures of the Dark tongue. Rolf put back his lasgun and drew his sword with a curt "Cover me." The sword glowed in the murky light that filtered through the black twill curtains. Rolf moved up to one such curtain and touched it with a gloved hand. They weren't entirely black. There was a brown tone to them. Disgusted, Rolf let go of the curtain. It wasn't ordinary toning that had stained the curtains; it was dried blood. 

 He felt someone by his side and spun round. It was Chomaki. 

 "These scum, to them, nothing is holy." the powerful, now sixty years old Commissar General growled. He had his power sword drawn too. 

 Chomaki turned to his men. "Search the basilica. I want to cleanse this Imperial city of the taint of the Dark!" 

 It must have been some sort of cue, Rolf reflected later. If Chomaki hadn't raised his voice, the Berzerkers would never have known their presence. To Chomaki, this simple show of devoutness would be fatal. 

 The gore and brass coloured power armour of Berzerkers appeared all over the place. Chain weapons screaming, the fell servants of the Etherdark attacked the Imperials. Ten men of the Guard fell before the initial shock of surprise had dissipated. The Berzerkers weren't more than seven, but it was seven of the best of whatever commander they had here. They butchered the poor guardsmen, threw them aside as limp dolls once their chain axes and swords had done the work. 

 Yarrick found himself up against worthy foes for the first time in a good while. They put up a good fight, but in the end, Rolf's agility and the keenness of his sword outmatched them. Yarrick had noticed the peculiar glow of the weapon. It shone with an inner grey/blue light, a behaviour it had never had before, Rolf noted. He would soon be educated why this was. 

 Chomaki fought as good as two Berzerker Honour Guard put together. His power sword ripped open great holes in the thick, ceramic armour of the Berzerkers with ease. Alas, in an unguarded moment, he was knocked to the ground, with the giant red shape of a Berzerker looming over him, a low, guttural chuckle coming from the creature. Its head disappeared suddenly, and the beast toppled forward, Chomaki throwing himself clear. Rolf stood behind; in a stance that suggested that he'd sliced the Berzerker's head clean off. 

 "Thank you, Rolf." Chomaki said and smiled at the young man, but Rolf's face was set grim. Chomaki barely noticed this and threw himself against the Berzerkers again, unaware that they'd been reinforced... 

 ...Reinforced by mutated comrades-in-arms. The Chosen warriors all sported hideous mutations; taloned limbs, spiny backs, wings. The armour of all of them was buckled in the most grotesque forms due to the bulks of the lesser deamons warping their bodies for their purposes. 

 Rolf understood why the sword glowed now. It reacted on deamonic presence, at least in his hands. But it was a faint glow, and he doubted anyone else even noticed it. 

 All of a sudden, the battle died away, as the remaining Chosen and Honour Guard backed out of the fight, extremely peculiar behaviour Berzerkers. There were two mutants, and only one Berzerker Honour Guard left. A sudden clapping of hands, or gauntlets, could be heard, accompanied by a dark, throaty laughter. The voice was seemingly amused. 

 "Bravo, bravo," it said. "Very good for Imperial maggots, indeed. Especially the Wolf's child." Rolf knew that the voice meant him. 

 The voice stepped out into view. It was a Berzerker, all right. But he was taller and wider than his servants. He wore a seemingly heavier version of the power armour, but it wasn't tactical dreadnought armour. Rolf would later learn it was designated as Chaos Armour. It was very spiky anyhow, the rune of Khorne etched on the right shoulder pad, the left one blank, as to symbolise his status as Legionless. The helmet had long, curved antlers; the eyes glowed with a sickly, greenish light. In his belt hung a large power axe and a bolt pistol, both weapons distorted by the effects of the Warp. 

 The champion looked at Chomaki. "You are Commissar General Chomaki, I presume?" he said in an amused tone. 

 Chomaki stepped forth. "Yes, that is I." Inside himself, Yarrick felt that something was awfully wrong. 

 "I am known as Fanthragos. Count Fanthragos." 

 Rolf saw the almost impossibly fast move the Berzerker Count did. 

 "Sir, look out!" Rolf shouted and threw himself against Chomaki, punching the man out of firing line. Fanthragos' bolt pistol fired in the gloomy light, and Rolf felt how Chomaki's body went limp. 

 They landed in a heap some bit away, Rolf's powerful thrust throwing them clear of the firing line of the Imperial Guard, who let rip on the renegades. 

 Rolf paid no notice. His mentor was dying in his lap. The bolt had merely scratched Chomaki's temple, but it had left a horrible gash in the head. 

 "Sir?" Rolf said, his voice already thick with sorrow. "Don't go die on me, not now!" 

 "We all go someday, Rolf." Chomaki whispered. "I just run out of luck. But I have had forty eventful years in the Imperial Guard." He coughed blood, and the spittle landed in Rolf's face, but he didn't care. 

 "Now, listen to me, Rolf, and listen closely. I won't be able to repeat this." Chomaki gasped. "I should've let you go long ago. You proved yourself worthy after one and a half year. I just wanted to see what I could squeeze out from you, and that was much indeed. You're a protective man, I have noticed. The way you want to help Irwin, Skuli... Frekk, every man you meet. But that's a weakness too. Don't ever let the enemy use that weakness, Rolf. That's the only fault I find in you." Chomaki paused. Rolf had heard that Chomaki's Callidussian dialect was coming back. Seemed Chomaki was aware of it too. "Heh, what irony... I fled from my home on Callidus, took a new name and worked away the dialect, just because of a trifle... And now a trifle takes my life, no?" Chomaki went back to topic. "Now, Rolf, Irwin will take care of you when I'm gone. He'll make sure of the formal passing. The Commissariat won't approve, but Irwin is a sly bastard. Trust him to hell and back, I do. No other man I've known is as loyal as him. And, he'll help you to become the greatest commissar ever, Rolf. I promise you that he will, but I need your promise to try, and don't let a thing like this dishearten you..." 

 "I will. God-Emperor knows I will!" Rolf said and squeezed one of Chomaki's limp hands firmly, but the famous commissar general was already dead. Rolf came back to reality. He heard shooting: the barks of bolters and the dull krak-noises of the lasguns. He heard screams, and sickly enough, laughter. He felt odd on the inside: empty, hollow. Something was missing on the inside. He'd felt the same when Caspar, good old Caspar, had died in his lap, in a very similar manner. But he also felt a force inside him. It was a warm, sweet feeling, but also cold and bitter. 

 Without thinking, Yarrick grasped the bolt pistol in Chomaki's holster and cocked it. Then he rose and looked Fanthragos straight in the eyes. The Dark Warrior stopped his insane laughter, and his three bodyguards stopped fighting, dumbstruck over the youth in the coat and cap. At least Rolf thought so. 

 For true, the Dark Ones had been mildly shocked by the sudden force of martial prowess that issued forth from Rolf. It was like a warm blanket, covering all around: an aura of hatred. It was a hatred born from loyalty and servitude, not bloodlust and betrayal. Rolf raised the bolt pistol against Fanthragos' head, muttering underneath his breath. "Never again. I cannot permit thee to live. Therefore, as the Sword and the Hand of the Emperor of Mankind, Blessed be He in His nine-fold glory, I grant thee His punishment at my hand. May some other force absolve your sins, for God-Emperor knows I can not!" 

 Rolf pulled the trigger twice in quick submission. The first shot blew a hole in the massive helmet armour and the second blew Fanthragos' head clear off his shoulders. Rolf swung the bolt pistol round and repeated the process upon the lone Honour Guard. As he turned to the deamonic Berzerkers, a dull, metallic clack was heard. 

 The beasts charged him, but Rolf took it easily, discarding the spent bolt pistol. The first was decapitated by a perfect slice of the Yarrickian sword, the second finding its brain pierced by a length of adamantine. As the last deamon-possessed fell, the dull glow disappeared from the Yarrickian Slayer Sword. Rolf wiped the sickly coloured blood of the deamons off on one of their loincloths. Then he took out some polishing-cloth from a coat pocket and wiped it off properly. 

 After that, he looked around. Four guardsmen were still alive, including Trooper Ynker with his spent missile launcher. He heard voices, far off. One female, another male, both in conversation, both agitated about something. 

 Rolf sagged down on the ground next to Chomaki's corpse and closed the man's glazed eyes and his open mouth. He looked at the sword in his hand and drew a diagonal slash in his right palm. Clutching his fist tight together around Chomaki's dog tags, Rolf swore an oath that was to follow him throughout his life. "I swear now, in my own blood, as well as the memory of an Imperial Hero, that I won't rest until this realm is rid of the Dark Lord. I won't rest until Lord Kevlinn, King of Berzerkers, is laid to rest. Then first, will I be through with this world." 

 After tucking the dog tags back inside Chomaki's collar, Rolf wrapped a strip of bandage around his palm and sheathed his sword. He tried to rise, but the ebbing adrenaline made him dizzy. 

 The voices were closer now. He recognised one as Irwin's. He looked up, and saw the tubby commissar walking along with a tall, slender and handsome woman, dressed in the powered armour of the Sister Sororitas. She had a long, silver gleaming blade sheathed by her side. It was a simple leather strap sheathe, not like Rolf's intricate. She also wore a long, white flowing cloak, lined with gilt embroidery and Imperial litanies. Her face was high cheek-boned and her golden hair was cut in a short haircut, but not as short as Rolf's. Rolf knew instinctively that that was Canoness Nazerine Almita. 

 She and Irwin walked up to Rolf, where he was sitting. 

 "God-Emperor..." Irwin mumbled silently as he saw Chomaki's corpse and Yarrick sitting beside it with his eyes full of tears. 

 "This demands some sort of explanation, I believe," Almita said softly. "Cadet?" 

 "The Dark Lord..." Rolf muttered forth. "He shall die!" 

 With that, he passed out from fatigue as the last of the adrenaline kick left him. 

 Rolf woke with a groan. He was lying on a simple stretcher bed, which meant he was still on Kiitar. He wondered what day it was and checked his wrist-chronometer. He sighed and tried to remember. Eighteen hours ago, his mentor, Amadeus Viktor Chomaki had been alive. Now, the famous Commissar General was yet another name in the Great Book of Fallen Comrades in the Commissariat on Secondus. Looking around, Rolf saw that he was lying in a makeshift infirmary. There were groans and silent crying from nearby cots, where wounded soldiers lay. Rolf got up, and now finally noticed he was wearing only a white singlet and his breeches. He pulled on his mud-caked jackboots and walked out, not bothering to put on his coat and cap. He'd commission new ones, if they were lost. 

 Walking out into the sunlight, Yarrick felt oddly hollow. The odd feeling hadn't left him. This was victory, but still a terrible loss, not only to Rolf, but also to the entire Imperium. Chomaki had been a great commander. Rolf tried to focus on something else. He looked around the street he was walking in. The civilians that had been kept as prisoners had been freed and taken back to their homes, or whatever was left of them. Some turned and saluted Rolf as he strolled along, but he barely saw them. He was looking at the surroundings. The large, exploded holes in buildings and the black, smoke pillars that rose in the horizon. A fine setting, Rolf thought darkly to himself, a fine setting indeed for the funeral of one of the Imperium's greatest Heroes. He also saw the blankets lined up at even intervals that covered the dead faces and bodies of soldiers. Their relatives would be informed of their loss via a standard pattern letter from the Commissariat, where only the name and personal code were exchangeable. No personal comments, nothing. All so very formal and solemn... Maybe not even that. 

 Rolf sadly remembered how Chomaki personally had visited his mother when his father had died in the Guard. But he had only done it for his father Sylvester, no other. He even doubted Chomaki had known all of his soldiers by name. Rolf looked down at his right hand. The medics had fixed a better bandage to it, but it couldn't hide its secret from Rolf. Rolf made a silent promise to himself that he would never let any soldier under his command feel expendable. He would make them all count. He'd make this promise to the Emperor, and him alone. Rolf therefore steered towards the basilica, in which he'd lost his mentor. 

 As he stepped into the building, he was surprised to see it full of light. The blood stained curtains had been torn down and burnt, and new Imperial iconography once more adorned its walls. Some soldiers had painted crude, but unmistakeably Imperial, aquilas on the walls, the paint still wet. Most of the basilica had been turned into a makeshift staff office. There were perhaps a dozen Munitorum clerks milling around and half a dozen officers. Rolf walked amongst them like a zombie, paying no heed to what they said. But one voice tore him from his thoughts. It was Irwin's, and it seemed very upset. It soon was made clear to Rolf whom he was talking to as he walked towards where the voices were coming from. 

 It was Skuli, the hunched mutant aide that Chomaki had treasured so and he seemed to the aim for Irwin's anger. Rolf watched the dialogue played out before him, in a dazed, apathic way. It was the way of man who had lost close to everything. 

 "Master Irwin, what are you saying?" Skuli said and looked terrified. He'd pulled back his hood, knowing that he was amongst well-known company. "Is Master Chomaki dead? I can't believe it..." 

 "He is dead, you nitwit!" Irwin growled. "Why won't you accept that?" 

 "Because Master Chomaki has cheated death before. I have seen it myself." 

 "Not this time..." Irwin said and lowered his head. "He caught a bolt in his temple. He died in Cadet Yarrick's lap." 

 Skuli seemed to finally accept this fact. "But, he was the one who took care of me. I was under his wings... What shall I do now?" 

 Irwin looked up, eyes blazing. "I for one won't take care of you, bastard! I have always wondered what Chomaki saw in a mutant like you? To me, you're nothing! You're not even worth the cloth you wear, eyesore!" The short commissar took a step closer to the mutant. Skuli huddled together like a scared animal. He knew what he was to expect. 

 And he was not to be disappointed. The punch that fell on his cheek was going to leave a mighty bruise. Irwin loaded up for another blow, and Skuli braced himself. The blow fell straight in his face and he was thrown backwards, landing hard on his back. What could be called Skuli's nose started to bleed profusely. Irwin's considerable bulk loomed over Skuli. 

 "When we get back to Callidus, I'll give you over to the Inquisition, you bastard! And there, you get what you truly- GAH!" 

 Skuli, who'd held his yellow cat's eyes closed firmly, opened one and looked up. He saw the Irwin was held high in the air by the hand of Commissar Cadet Yarrick, who seemed to be anything else than happy. Rolf was clutching Irwin with a firm, choking grip around the man's fat throat. 

 "Who's the bastard around here, Irwin?" Rolf said grimly. "Skuli wouldn't hurt a fly, and you know that! You know that damn well!" 

 "It was just a minor misunderstanding, Master Yarrick." Skuli tried to explain. "Matter of fact, I'm quite used that he punches me-" 

 "Is it usual that Irwin punches you, Skuli?" Rolf asked and threw a sideways glance at the creature. 

 "Well, yes..." Skuli admitted. "But I have iron tough skin. Doesn't hurt so much." 

 Rolf nodded slowly and turned back to Irwin, who was going slightly red as he was held in the choking grip. His feet didn't touch the ground, and he had a nasty feeling that he was going to be strangled by his own weight. 

 "You hear that, Hendrik?" Rolf said softly. "Is it usual that you punch Skuli? And what has he done to you, eh? Was he being indignant? Or was he just born!" Rolf tightened his grip. 

 "Rolf... you're... strangling me..." Irwin gasped and put his hands on Rolf's in an attempt to loosen the grip, or maybe pull himself up a bit. 

 "It's Commissar Cadet Yarrick!" Rolf roared. "To even think that I felt commiseration for a man like you! All kind and good to those over you, but you kick down hard, no? Listen now, commissar, I won't let you die like this... But I want you to swear, to the Emperor and Chomaki's memory, that you'll never again bear hand upon Skuli. Hear me?" 

 Irwin, who had gone purple in his face now, gasped. "I...promise... To the...Emperor, I...promise..." 

 Satisfied with this answer, Rolf put down the paunchy man and walked away from him. Skuli was soon by Irwin's side, trying to help the gasping commissar into a good position which gave him free breathing. He succeeded after a few tries, and Irwin slowly caught his breath. Then he looked at Skuli with a look with both fear and gladness. After a few moments of hesitation, Irwin stuck out a hand. Skuli grabbed it with his muscly three-digit paw and shook it. Then, surprised at himself even, Irwin hugged the mutant man tight. 

*********************************

Commissar General Rolf Yarrick stood by one of Cardinal Boras' vast bay windows and gazed into space. It had been three years, roughly, since Chomaki's death. Three highly eventful years. 

 When the regiments had gone back to Callidus, to reform the 29th, it had been made clear that Chomaki had one last ace to play. He had, as Rolf knew, promoted him to commissar rank, and Irwin dealt with this formally when they'd returned as he'd been told of Yarrick's graduation. Despite being elevated to full commissar-hood, Rolf decided to keep his camouflaged coat as long as he stayed with the Callidussian regiments. He also kept the lasgun, but he'd had a slight tinker with it, to the disgust of the Tech priests. 

 But Yarrick had only kept his rank of commissar for a few weeks. Then Chomaki's Will had been found. It stated that Chomaki gave over the command of the Callidussian regiments under him, to Rolf. The Commissariat had raged over this, but, as Chomaki had predicted, Irwin had played a good political spin to it and Rolf had been promoted to Commissar General. Few of the commissars in the Callidussian regiments had liked this; even Irwin had been slightly grumpy about it. But it had turned out to be Chomaki's perhaps wisest decision ever. Yarrick proved to be of the right mettle, and he'd lost no battle ever since he attained his command. 

 Yes, it had been three very eventful years... 

 The giant Retribution-class battleship Cardinal Boras lay in orbit over the crystal world Elysion again. The Guard had once again been allowed a few months off. Rolf didn't know if he liked it, or hated it. He liked the time off, yes, but the time off made the soldiery lazy and unfit for their duties, and as a commissar, he couldn't accept that. 

 Yarrick smiled to himself as he walked along the gantry, towards the mess hall. Irwin, who'd turned quite kind against Skuli (whom Rolf had decided to keep on as an aide), had taught Rolf well in the sneaky ways of politics that commissars often used. Rolf had resented such at first, but seeing how it could be used to good effect, he opted to learn more about it. Knowledge was no burden. 

 As he entered the mess hall, he looked around. Yarrick wasn't hungry, not even thirsty, but he had a reason to be here: Irwin. Yarrick had often spoken with the physicians accompanying the Callidussian regiments, and they were united in their answers. 

 Rolf spotted the potbellied little man in the sea of faces. He was sitting together with Skuli, who was watching intently as Irwin worked with a bunch of data-slates. Rolf had delegated work to other commissars instead of Irwin, but it seemed he liked to check things. As Rolf approached them, he saw Irwin break the stylus he was holding by mistake. Rolf heard the man's curse, and smirked. But he was quite astonished to see Skuli pull out one of his quills from his head and grant to Irwin. The hole that the quill left behind bled profusely and Skuli was handed a handkerchief by Irwin, who then continued his work. 

 "Didn't that hurt, Skuli?" Rolf said as he sat down beside the two. Skuli just grinned his fanged grin and Irwin smiled softly. 

 "Skuli here doesn't have a fully-functional neural system as you and me, Rolf." Irwin said without looking up. 

 "True," Skuli agreed. "I do not feel much, Master Yarrick, although it bleeds greatly." 

 Rolf smiled back at the mutant creature. Skuli was a strange thing. Any other man, and woman, in the Imperium considered Skuli dangerous. Dangerous due to his mutations. But Skuli was not a warmonger, and, strongly contradicting to most beliefs, he was smarter than most would like to think, or even imagine. 

 "Skuli, do you mind if I talk in private with Irwin for a while?" Rolf said softly. 

 "No problem, master." Skuli said and scurried off. Rolf turned to Irwin and grabbed the man's hand so that he would put down his makeshift stylus. Irwin looked up at Rolf, confusion in his eyes. Irwin's complexion wasn't as pale as it had been three years ago. He'd regained some colour. 

 "What's the matter, Rolf?" Irwin asked, seeing the concerned look in the commissar general's eyes. 

 "Irwin, I need to talk to you about-" Rolf began, but Irwin cut him off, knowing what would be coming. He'd been nagged about it for the last three years. 

 "My overweight? Fine! But I should let you know, Rolf, I have lost weight these last three years. Now I weigh around ninety kilos; that's ten kilos less than three years ago. I know what danger I am in, but Skuli has helped me lose weight, in some odd way..." 

 "Of course you've lost weight, Hendrik, I can see that, but it's not that... It's not enough. Consider this; you're mid-forties, overweight and work too hard. Text book causes for cardiac problems, no?" 

 "I feel fine, Rolf. Never better, I promise." 

 "You're a ticking bomb, Hendrik. And that's what the medics think too." 

 "They don't know crap!" Irwin barked. He didn't like where this was heading. "Now, if you would allow me to-" 

 "No, I won't. They recommend that you take a long time off, Hendrik, and I agree with them, seeing black on white the situation at hand." 

 Irwin was silent a moment, the red colour in his face subsiding slightly. "How long time off, Rolf?" 

 "Early retirement usually lasts your entire life." Yarrick said softly. He looked into Irwin's eyes, trying to look kind. They met an icy stare. 

 "You're kidding!" Irwin blurted out after a moment of silence. "Sir, with all due respect! This is my career. My life! You can't just take it away from me!" 

 "If it endangers your physical health, I can." Rolf replied smoothly to this outburst. 

 "By the Saints, I endanger my physical health by just being a commissar!" Irwin stood up. "With all due respect, Commissar General, but I can't stand this! I belong in the Guard! I do not want to end up on some backwater planet where electricity is a wonder!" 

 "You won't. I'll make sure of that, Hendrik." 

 "Crap talk!" 

 "Hendrik, your heart-" 

 "Shut up! If you want to ruin my life, shoot me instead! I live for the Imperial Guard! This is my life!" Irwin suddenly grasped his left upper arm as he got a stinging feeling in it. 

 "Now don't be like a stubborn mule, Hendrik! I can have you forcibly retired if I want to, but I thought I could refrain from that." 

 "Shut the frekk up! You're talking like a blasphemer in my ears!" There was fear mixed with rage in Irwin's voice now. Every single officer in the mess was looking at the two commissars. Irwin continued. "I know frekking well what's good for me..." 

 The last words of the sentence were lost as Irwin slumped to the ground in a heap. Yarrick was soon over the man to check him. It was all too obvious: heart attack. 

 "Fudge..." Rolf muttered to himself as he got the confirmation to his worst fears. "MEDIC!" 

 The medical bay's room was cold and quiet. However, the quietness was broken by a low sigh and a grumble. Commissar General Rolf Yarrick sat by the cot upon which his comrade in arms and friend, Hendrik Irwin, lay. Yarrick had been sitting by the man's side for nearly three days, relieved at intervals by Skuli. 

 Resting his head in his hands, Rolf sighed once again and felled a silent tear. He'd just wanted to help Irwin and this was the reward. A man whose health and life he'd wanted to save was now lying in an infirmary cot because of Rolf's eagerness. 

 "Damn," Rolf said and sighed again. He stood up and thought on calling Skuli. He'd been sitting here for nearly ten hours. As he turned to walk out, he heard a slight groan from the cot. Turning and looking over the bulge on the sheets that formed Irwin's belly, Rolf saw that his aide was awake, if faintly. Keeping calm, knowing that Irwin needed complete rest, Rolf walked over to his rotund friend and sat down next to him, clasping one of Irwin's hands in his own. 

 "Sir?" Irwin asked in a faint voice and looked with clouded eyes at his commander. 

 "Don't speak, Hendrik," Rolf said softly. "You need rest, total rest. Your life is safe, thanks to our splendid physicians." 

 "What happened?" Irwin asked, trying a confused look on his face. 

 "You suffered a heart attack, Hendrik. It was my fault, I pushed you too hard in a way you didn't like..." 

 Rolf paused to see a response in Irwin's face, but received no answer. Rolf continued, "I should've known better than to not have left well enough alone. You're satisfied as long as you have things to work with, right?" 

 Irwin nodded. "You should've known better..." 

 "Quite so, Hendrik, but... see, the doctors still claim firmly that you have to lose weight..." 

 Yarrick had spoken softly, as not to agitate the ill man even more. 

 Irwin nodded again. "I agree with that now..." he said cautiously. "I feel unhealthy. And this, Rolf... it has made my standing point adamant. I don't believe I have much of a choice but to lose weight, if I want to remain in the Guard... even more alive..." 

 Yarrick nodded, if gravely and stood up. "I'll inform the medics you are awake. I sincerely hope you keep your little promise, Hendrik, as I wouldn't want any other man to perform the duties you do. I can't ask for more than your impeccable work, can I?" 

 Irwin managed a smile. "I'm chuffed, sir." 

 Yarrick smiled down at the man. The usage of the Icharian slang sounded off in Irwin's fine-flowing Low Gothic. Without further word, Rolf left the man alone. As Rolf came outside the room, he found Skuli huddled up on a chair, clutching his knees. After telling a doctor about Irwin's awakening, Yarrick went over to Skuli. The mutant creature turned his hooded head towards his master. 

 "Good evening, master," Skuli said softly, trying hard to avoid the slight lisp his fangs gave him. He had a perpetual fear for the physicians and didn't want to be discovered. A slight smile crossed Rolf's lips as he saw that Skuli had put on mittens and socks to avoid people seeing his three-digit feet and hands. 

 "Good evening, Skuli," the commissar general answered. "It might be of your interest that Hendrik is awake now." 

 Happiness flared in Skuli's eyes. "Is he? Is he in pain? Or has it gone from him now?" 

 "He's fine," Rolf replied. "Although tired. He needs much rest... and a diet. Remember this, Skuli, that Hendrik has promised to lose weight, and you'll help him with that, right?" 

 "Of course, master." Skuli went silent a moment and spoke when Yarrick was about to leave. "Sir, I must say that you agitated him a bit too much in the mess hall. It was highly unnecessary. You could have lost one of your finest subordinates." 

 With that, Skuli hopped down from the chair and scampered into Irwin's room to join him. Which left the young commissar general in deep contemplation. 

*********************************

 Commissar General Rolf Yarrick tried to keep his numbing fingers warm by blowing on them and rubbing them together, but it was no use. Volrath was damn cold, and he envied the red-armoured Space Marines in their heated power armour. His snow-camoed greatcoat couldn't keep him as warm as he wanted and he'd gladly exchange his peaked cap for a wool hat, the kind that his soldiers had issued to their cold-weather gear. 

 "You don't like the cold, sir?" a voice said suddenly aside Yarrick. The commissar general glanced round and down at Irwin. 

 "Oh, really, what made you guess that?" Yarrick replied caustically. 

 "Your envious looks on the Astartes Adepts, Rolf," Irwin replied smoothly, ignoring, maybe not even noticing, the remark. 

 Rolf took himself a closer look on Irwin. In this last year, Irwin had kept a very strict diet, but still had not lost more than four or five kilos of weight. Still, he seemed much healthier now than a year ago. Irwin still was slightly rotund and his thick greatcoat only strengthened that aspect. 

 "You look like a Moskvanian matroyska doll, Hendrik," Yarrick commented, which made his aide chuckle. Irwin produced a hipflask from somewhere inside his coat and offered it to Yarrick. 

 "Want a snifter? It's a cold planet and an equally callous enemy." 

 "No thank you, Hendrik. I want to stay away from drink... at least this early in day. And especially not before a battle." 

 "Have it your way," Irwin replied and to a hefty swig of it. There was a moment of silence afterwards, and Irwin screwed back the plug of the flask, as the two commissars watched the Imperial Guard unload side by side with Sisters of Battle and the huge Space Marines of the Death Angel's legion. 

 "They never seize to impress me, those Space Marines. No matter how many times I see them, I always seem, and feel mind you, small next to them," Irwin remarked. 

 "You seem small next to anybody, Hendrik." Yarrick said and tightened the coat around himself, as a chill wind blew down the pass. 

 "Yes, but I don't lack an air of authority, do I?" Irwin said and looked at Yarrick. The tall, slender man nodded. "Well," Irwin continued, "I do next to them. All my Commissarial authority is gone. Even Chomaki felt that way, you know." 

 Rolf didn't reply. He chose not to and instead watched as the Marines deployed from their Thunderhawk gunships and transports. He saw one particularly immense Marine walk out from one Thunderhawk. The man was huge; around two and a half metres tall and broad and muscly, even without the extra bulk his armour granted. His hair was cut severe and his bushy eyebrows were so close that they seemed to form one. He had a jump pack mounted on his back and a power sword and a holstered plasma pistol hung from his belt. 

 He walked towards were Yarrick and Irwin stood, saluted (strange, it seemed on the commissars) and introduced himself. His voice was a deep melodious bass, with clear signs of the middle-hive accent from Ichar. 

 "Lieutenant Commander Edmund Charleston, 8th company commander of the Legio Angelicus Mortis," he said flatly and stuck out a hand which Rolf grasped and shook, after answering the salute. 

 "Commissar General Rolf Yarrick, C-in-C Callidussian Imperial Guard regiments 25 through 29," Yarrick replied just as flatly. Irwin had to settle for just saluting, no introduction of him. He didn't matter it seemed. 

 A soft smile entered the big Marine's face. It bared glittering and perfect white teeth. "We've heard a lot about you, Commissar General. And it's all praise. Is the saying true as people tell; that you simply blew the head off Arch-traitor Fanthragos?" 

 "Yes," Rolf replied, sounding timid at the sudden tone of awe in the Marine's voice. "But not before the bastard had killed my mentor, Commissar Chomaki, may his soul rest eternally." 

 "The Emperor protects," Charleston filled in dutifully. He turned and looked, literally, down on Irwin. "You're Commissar Irwin, right?" 

 "Yes, that is me," Irwin replied simply. 

 "Seems you've got it on a good footing with Canoness Almita, buddy. Dunno what you've done for that, but you're a lucky stiff." 

 Charleston grinned, as Irwin blushed deeply red. The tubby man mumbled something and then moved off. 

 "So, it was as McKenzie said then..." Charleston said silently to himself, but Yarrick heard him. 

 "What did you say?" Rolf asked, startled at the name. 

 "I said that McKenzie was right, as usual," Charleston said and rolled his eyes. "He claimed that Irwin was a tad intimate with Almita, more intimate than perhaps necessary, but nothing dangerous. She's in celibacy and he's having a crush on something taboo." 

 Yarrick didn't quite follow the man's reasoning, but knew what he meant in some way. 

 "Hey," Charleston said and gestured over his shoulder. "McGranth wanted me to get you before the briefing, so that we can get introduced... again on McKenzie's advice." Under his breath, Charleston added, very silently "Damn psyker..." 

 As the huge Marine strode away, Rolf followed him, not having much of a choice. They went into a large conference room, the room meant to house Yarrick and all his staff, the Marine commanders, the Sororita officers and some more Imperial Guard, from Kenthas, Yarrick had been told. 

 But now, the room was empty, bar himself, Charleston and two other Marines, one dressed in intricately decorated armour and the other in a bulky Tactical Dreadnought armour suit. 

 The one in the Terminator suit introduced himself as Grand Commander Eddie McGranth. He was short, for a Space Marine, and stocky and had a healthier colour to his skin than his two companions. His eyes were lined from his many years in duty, the left one even had a crude and old looking scar over it, and he kept his black hair very short, with the exception of three, in lack of better words, braids. A thin, well-kept moustache sat on his upper lip and gave him a slightly aristocratic air. From his belt hung a massive power axe and a storm bolter was slung over his shoulder. Yarrick guessed that he wasn't more than one metre ninety and a very apt commander as well as a master opportunist. 

 The other one, in the strange power armour, was taller and more slender than Yarrick himself. Measuring somewhere around two metres twenty he still held a commanding presence. He had a powerful chin and a slight up nose. His hair was black and kept in similar braids to his grand commander's, though many more and most of his hair was covered by a large black slouch hat. A tiny starburst tattoo sat on his left temple. From his belt hung a holstered bolt pistol along with a strange sword in a blue metal. He took Yarrick's hand and shook it, surprising the commissar at the strength of the grip. 

 "Master Lexicanum Edward McKenzie," he said simply. Yarrick suddenly noticed a tang of metal in the air, and remembered from where he'd heard the name and where the feeling of metal had come from. 

 "You're a witch!" Rolf snapped and pulled back his hand. 

 McKenzie sighed. "I'd prefer the title psychically apt humanoid being, though it is most probably a matter of personal taste." 

 "What more do you expect from a pious man like a commissar?" McGranth asked softly his Master Lexicanum. "Even more so, as he is a Yarrick, I believe." 

 "Of course..." McKenzie said silently. 

 "Now," McGranth said and turned to Yarrick. "You should know us all as friends. We mean no harm." McGranth glared at McKenzie. "We all have thought highly of you since you killed Fanthragos. We all value you in our own ways. We have known Imperial Heroes to have fallen at the blades of Fanthragos-" 

 "Wait a minute!" Yarrick cut them off. "I killed Fanthragos by blowing his head off with Chomaki's bolt pistol." Rolf showed them the weapon in its holster. He had kept the pistol close since that day, as a memory of his mentor. "I never got close to him... And I couldn't do it until after Chomaki had been killed..." 

 "Yes," McKenzie spoke, "However, have you got any idea why Fanthragos didn't react and why he didn't duck out of the way? His reflexes would have made that possible." 

 "I haven't thought much of that day, to tell the truth. The memories scar me," Yarrick replied and lowered his head. 

 "I think that is were you go wrong, buddy," Charleston said and put a hand on the commissar's shoulder. "Don't leave things like that untouched. Your enemy can use that against you one day. Memories like that hurt, yes, but only when you let them grow and mature like that. Think about them when you have time, and reflect on them. Honour your lost and loved one's memories. That way, you can remember them as the people they were, not the sorrow their loss brought you." 

 Rolf looked up with tear-glazed eyes at the huge Space Marine. Charleston seemed a simple man; calm, straightforward and loyal. But it was obvious a deep mind and an intelligence of its own played behind his blue eyes. 

 "Let's get back on track," McKenzie interrupted. "The reason Fanthragos didn't duck was that he simply couldn't. I felt the Warp itself recoil from around Kiitar when Fanthragos met his death. I thought then, foolishly, that it had been the death of one of Dark Lord Kevlinn's most trusted lieutenants that had caused it. Know I know better. It recoiled because of you, Commissar General." 

 "But, how can that be?" Rolf asked. He was genuinely confused. 

 "You might scarcely believe it yourself, but the Dark is afraid of you," McKenzie said with a wry smile. "It is afraid of the damage you can cause it. For more than seven hundred thousand years it hasn't had anything to fear. Now it has, and it has come suddenly indeed, too sudden even for something as adaptable as the Warp." 

 "But," Yarrick said and sat down. "What has that to do with me?" 

 McGranth checked his watch. "You have ten minutes, Edward." 

 "Thank you, commander." McKenzie took off his hat and ran a gauntleted hand through his thick black hair. "You are without doubt in knowledge of your family past, right?" Seeing as Yarrick nodded, McKenzie continued. "Good, as it is of great value. Your family's founder; Hrodwulf Le'man, the forger of the Deamon Slayer sword, left a legacy saying that when the time arose, he would return to save the Imperium and guard his Emperor once more." 

 "I know of that," Yarrick said simply. McKenzie put his hat back on. 

 "Good, see, the Warp believes you to be the Deamon Slayer reincarnate, and now it hastens itself to conquer the mortal realm. That is why this sudden outburst of Dark activity has become. The Dark Gods know that there's only one mortal that can threaten their existence; the Imperial Legend Reborn." 

 Rolf realised McKenzie meant him. Yarrick knew he was stronger than most men, taller too and it went without mentioning that he had a constitution beyond normal men, but he'd thought these mere trifles. He had been diagnosed as a half-Space Marine, and that was it, he'd thought. It was a mutation that the Inquisition accepted. He had heard of other cases, but not that he would be his great ancestor reborn. That was ridiculous. 

 "It can't be me," Yarrick said with a sneer. "I'm but a young man still, unskilled-" 

 "Unskilled?" McKenzie raised his eyebrows in mock query. "I wouldn't say so. There are Space Marine captains that would fall for your blade. Not to mention the wicked warriors of the Dark. And yet, you are not more than a quarter of a decade old. And you most certainly have very much time left!" 

 "Still, I would not be able to match the Dark Lord himself in battle skill and prowess, would I?" 

 "His skill is formed from countless battles after centuries of savagery," McKenzie said and scowled. "His greatest wish is to slay and spill blood in his Master's name. A wish you don't share. But you will also gain skill, Rolf, as time progresses and you will have more than enough time to perfect your skills and gain experience. 

 "And do I not guess correctly when I say that you want to be able to face him in battle and defeat him one day?" 

 Rolf nodded but spoke not a word. 

 "I believe we have made clear to you our reason to respect you, haven't we?" McKenzie asked and smiled warmly. 

 "Indeed you have, although it seems unbelievable," Yarrick replied. 

 A few minutes later, a good fifty officers and juniors gathered in the briefing room and McGranth laid out his battle-plan. McKenzie also gave a brief on what they were facing: Hive Fleet vanguards called Genestealers. They were tougher and stronger than Hive Fleet Behemoth's Genestealers and thus they could only belong to Hive Fleet Kanker. This Hive Fleet had held a firm grip on Volrath a long time. It seemed however very strange that the insecticide aliens hadn't stripped Volrath, and their declared home world New Hope, of its resources, something that seemed too human in nature for aliens. McKenzie voiced none of his concern for that Kanker was preparing the coming of its parent Fleet Behemoth. If it was so, the Imperium had little hope, even with the Deamon Slayer reborn... 

 After the briefing the Imperial warriors spread out as McGranth had instructed and the force advanced upon the Genestealers. They would not let this cult survive. McKenzie felt an odd feeling when he advanced with a bodyguard of Tactical Marines. It was the feeling of being stopped, held back. He could not see as far as he'd liked with his psychic sight. Something was hampering him. 

 It had been more than two hours since brief when Rolf Yarrick met the enemy for the first time. He and three platoons of Imperial Guard along with a squad of storm troopers stood face to face with a Genestealer brood. Some of the Genestealers were pureblood aliens, but the vast majority of them were mutants: half-human and half-Genestealer. The mutations were grotesque. Instead of four arms, the mutants had perhaps three, of which one was a Genestealer talon. The Genestealers themselves were no pretty sight. Standing close on two metres tall, six limbed and with a strange colouring of dark blue carapace and pale blue skin, they could instil terror in anyone. Their eyes had a neon-blue light in them and their fangs were long and silvery. Their feet and one pair of arms ended in sturdy, three-digit talons and the other pair of arms ended in human looking hands with silver gleaming claws. The heads looked faintly human, though hairless. A short stubby tail extended from their rears and they all moved with an inhuman speed. 

 Although they fell easily for the lasguns and hellguns of the Imperial Guard, their speed enabled them to get very close very fast. Yarrick noticed this and ordered his men to fall back a pace to get a better shot. As long as they could keep a few hundred metres between themselves and the Genestealers, they would be safe. Yarrick found it odd that the half-humans didn't carry lasguns or at least autoguns. Instead they carried blades and axes. However, the lack of long-range weaponry didn't seemingly impede on them, and they were soon all over them. Yarrick found himself fighting for his life. No Dark madness could have prepared him for this. The half-humans proved able opponents to his brave Imperial Guard. The powerful talons of the Genestealers cut without greater problems straight through the carapace armour of the storm troopers, and that distressed Yarrick greatly. Turning round after decapitating another half-human, he looked into the face of one particularly large Genestealer. Viscous drool ran down its fangs as it studied the young commissar general. Yarrick saw the inhuman intelligence that worked behind the cold eyes. He raised his sword just in time to parry one of the powerful talons. 

 The beast hissed and made a new attack. Yarrick brought his sword round and took off the beast's left clawed hand with it. The snow beneath them was painted purple by the strange ichors flowing in the veins of the Genestealer. The thing jumped backwards, and sprung forwards so fast that Rolf barely saw it coming. He managed to get out of the way just in time, but the Genestealer took part of his left arm coat and flesh with one of its talons. Shutting out the pain, Yarrick could not prevent that his blood mixed in the snow with the Genestealer's purple ichors. The beast lunged at him again, but this time Yarrick was ready for it, despite his pain. He fell backwards into the snow, the beast coming on top of him. Rolf sent both his jackbooted feet into the belly of it and cut a long, deep gash in its chest with his sword. Half a second later, he threw it over himself so that it landed several metres away into the snow. Rolf stood up and tottered on the spot a while. The beast didn't move. Rolf doubted he'd killed it. He could've impaled it on his sword if he'd wanted, but he did not want to risk it having death spasms. His breath came in gasps now. The blood hadn't dried in his arm; it had frozen. He noticed a movement by his side and spun round with his sword, decapitating a lone Genestealer. Looking around, Yarrick saw he was the last man standing amongst his own. The fight hadn't lasted long, the corpses still smoked because their own body heat. A small movement behind him caught his eye and he saw the huge Genestealer standing up. It launched itself at him and knocked the Yarrickian sword out of his hands and landed firmly on top of him, knocking the air out of the Imperial Commissar. It stood up to its full height and screamed out a victory shriek. It was wordless, alien and it pierced the thin air of Volrath, carrying far, proclaiming its victory over the Commissar General. 

 Bending down, opening its maws to chew off the knocked Yarrick's face, it found itself with a cold bolt pistol's muzzle in its mouth. 

 "Eat this!" Yarrick growled and pulled the trigger. The back of the Genestealer's head exploded in a mist of purple ichors and pale blue flesh. The beast toppled backwards and landed with a wet thump in the snow. Its limbs twitched a few moments before finally coming to rest. 

 Rolf let his extended right arm fall back into the snow, still clutching the bolt pistol of his dead mentor. "God-Emperor have mercy," he muttered before passing out of pain and cold. 

 McKenzie walked the lines. The battle was long since over, though he couldn't find the commissar general. He saw Commissar Irwin stepping out of one of the command buildings and approached the short man. McKenzie felt a tang of envy as he felt the smell from the steaming caffeine in Irwin's hands. There was a stiff measure of Scotch in it. McKenzie felt it. He damned himself that he couldn't have the stuff. Marines were meant to be able to take more than ordinary humans when it came to alcohol, but they were forbidden from drinking it any way. 

 "Commissar Irwin, have you seen Commissar General Yarrick?" McKenzie asked as he came up to the commissar. 

 Irwin stopped the jug just at his lips and gave it a think. "Not recently, if you mean now after the battle?" 

 "Strange," McKenzie said and scratched his head. "No vox from his platoons. Nothing?" 

 Irwin shrugged. "Damned if I know." 

 "Where was he last reported?" 

 "Colonel Ilkan said that the last report from them was somewhere around map section C4," Irwin said after a few moments of thinking. 

 "When was that?" 

 "Damn, you ask many questions!" Irwin spat. "I thought you were a mind-reader, McKenzie? Ah, well, it must've been two hours ago, or something. I'm not sure." 

 "Oh, frekk!" McKenzie growled and ran off towards a collection of big Space Marine snow-bikes. Irwin shrugged. He felt that it was no rush really; he knew that Yarrick could take care of himself. Besides, it was hard to worry with a good, heavy meal filling the stomach. He'd allowed himself to be a bit indulgent over the diet just this once. 

 McKenzie shouted to Apothecary O'Brian to get his medicae kit and come with him. He also picked out four Marines as escort, in case there still was Genestealers at large. McKenzie jumped up on one snow-bike, ignited the engine and sped off towards map section C4. He brought the map online on a tiny data-screen mounted in the steering bar of the snow-bike. He threw a hasty glance behind himself to see if the others were following. They were, though it was hard to make out the Apothecary in his white armour against the snow. McKenzie pressed a few buttons to make the cogitator unit plot a course to section C4. In a moment's notice, he got response and turned his bike to drive down a deep ice valley. Apothecary O'Brian and the four Marines followed without hesitation, fully confident in their leader. 

 They came out of the ice valley and McKenzie set off to the north. He still had the strange feeling of being held back. He didn't like it. He slowed his bike down as they reached the map section. He tried to scan for life signs in the entire area, but it was futile. Something was really blocking him out. McKenzie ordered them to spread out and search the area for any survivors. 

 McKenzie tried once again to scan for life signs as he rumbled slowly across the snow. He could feel about ten metres around himself, he guessed. McKenzie felt O'Brian coming up behind him. 

 "If this young man was alive but wounded two hours ago, he won't be alive any more, Master Lexicanum," O'Brian said gravely. 

 "He is alive," McKenzie growled. "I have a strange feeling he is damn well alive." 

 He rolled down another valley, though smaller. Suddenly, the impeding blanket was gone from his psychic mind and McKenzie took in the entire of section C4. There was one more soul there, except the five Marines and himself, but it was a faint one. McKenzie programmed the coordinates into the cogitator and ordered all Marines to follow him. He brought his bike round and drove due east, towards the reading. As soon as he left the valley, the blanket of psychics were there again and hampered him, but he needed not his mind any more. 

 McKenzie reached the spot where Yarrick had passed out and saw the devastation wrought by the Genestealers. It turned his guts to see so many brave men gutted by those foul aliens. Still, they'd taken every single Genestealer with them down. McKenzie got off his snow-bike and crossed over to the corpse of one particularly large Genestealer. 

 "Brood leader," McKenzie whispered to himself, recording what he spoke. "Was highly psychic undoubtly, close to two metres fifty, weighed probably around two hundred kilos." McKenzie examined it closer and saw that one hand was missing and the jaw had been broken, the back of the head blown off and several fangs were broken. It also had a deep cut in its chest. McKenzie reported all this in his link. The Magos Biologis would be proud of this specimen of the Genestealer species. 

 McKenzie spun round abruptly as he heard a low groan behind him. He walked over the form of Rolf Yarrick, which was lying sprawled in the snow. The commissar's lips were blue and his usually tanned skin had taken a pale hue instead. He was in dire need of medical help. 

 "O'Brian! Over here!" McKenzie called out. 

 The apothecary rushed over and bent down by McKenzie's side. "He's very frozen," O'Brian said, stating the obvious. "And he's suffered from blood loss as well." 

 O'Brian pulled out a thick blanket from somewhere and they wrapped Yarrick up tight in it to keep him warm. They then carried him over to the Apothecary's combination bike and put him in the sidecar. McKenzie watched as the medic performed his duties. He then glanced down on the ground. Something had caught his eye. He picked up the bolt pistol that Yarrick had had in his frozen hand, and also his sword as he found it sticking out of the snow a few metres away. He went over to Yarrick in the sidecar and sheathed the sword in its scabbard. He didn't put the bolt pistol back though. Instead, he kept it with him as they drove back to the main base. 

 Yarrick slowly opened his eyes. It felt like crawling up an icy slope. He looked up into the roof of the sickbay of the transport ship and then to his left as he felt someone's presence. It wasn't psychic; it was something gained through battle. There he saw Irwin sitting on a chair, wearing the same expression that Rolf had worn when Irwin had had his heart attack. Rolf smiled to himself and called Irwin's name. The short man looked suddenly up and a broad smile spread on his lips. 

 "God-Emperor be merciful! You're alive, sir!" Irwin exclaimed and sat himself closer to the medic cot. "We all thought you were going to die, considering the condition McKenzie found you in." 

 Yarrick didn't reply immediately. He studied Irwin. The man seemed haggard, despite his roundness. It was obvious he'd been sitting by Yarrick's side for a long time. 

 "What state did McKenzie find me in?" Rolf asked politely. 

 Irwin was just to reply, when Skuli spoke. "In a bad condition, and that is all you need to know, master." 

 Yarrick looked surprised at the mutant servant, but Irwin smiled warmly. Rolf thought he'd never seen such a genuine smile on anyone's lips. 

 "That is true, Skuli," Irwin said. "Rolf need not know what terrible state he was in." Irwin turned to Yarrick. "Honestly speaking, Rolf, we were afraid of losing you." 

 Yarrick's emotions must have shone through, because Irwin patted him soothingly on his hand, like a father might do with his son. A long moment of reverent silence followed. But it was suddenly broken by angry voices from the outside. Yarrick recognised one at once as McKenzie's. The other one, not as high in tone as McKenzie's, he knew, but he couldn't place it. He heard pieces from a heated argument, as did Skuli and Irwin. 

 "...Must one day find out! You can't keep it from him, inquisitor!" That was McKenzie's voice. 

 "I can keep it form him if I prefer to, Master Lexicanum!" the inquisitor replied coldly. 

 "I doubt that!" McKenzie threw back. "You know full well that I have no love lost for your kin." 

 "True... Alas, it is not you or your damned family it concerns, but the Yarricks." 

 McKenzie replied with something unintelligible. Which was perhaps just as good, Yarrick thought. It sounded rude. 

 Irwin had also listened and now lost his temper with the two men outside. He got up from his chair, put on his commissar's cap and walked out to them. Yarrick heard his angered voice through the walls as he chased McKenzie and the inquisitor off. 

 "What do you think you're up to? This is a medical bay and it is supposed to be quiet. It won't be quiet if you argue as loudly as you do now, kind sirs. So, off you go! Argue some other place, but not here. Tsach!" 

 Yarrick heard the heavy tread of power armoured feet and the lighter tread of feet in jackboots. A few seconds later, all was silent again and Irwin came back into the room. 

 "No respect for the wounded, those two," he muttered to himself as he sat down heavily on a chair. Rolf smiled to himself. It must have been a funny looking scene, he thought. Tall McKenzie and undoubtedly a powerful and tall inquisitor chased off by a short, tubby commissar. It was a crazy world... 

 "Hendrik," Yarrick asked after a moment of silence. "Who was that inquisitor?" 

 "An Inquisitor Felix Rovannion," Irwin replied as he sat down. "If you want my opinion, he's not to be trusted, that inquisitor." 

 "They must have been surprised at you chasing them off, Hendrik," Rolf said and grinned. 

 Irwin didn't notice the joke, but Skuli did and grinned too. 

 "They should respect the solitude that people want when in convalesce and not just speak away like that!" Irwin said sounding irritated. 

 Yarrick looked at Skuli and both laughed out loud. Sometimes, Irwin's total lack of any greater imagination was laughable. 

*********************************

 Rolf Yarrick remembered well that day as he now reflected on it. It had been the first time he'd met McKenzie, Charleston and McGranth, but it had also been the first time his strange iron will had saved him from certain death. It was also then he'd been made aware that Inquisitor Rovannion had been at his home all those years ago for more than coincidence. But that was two years ago and it seemed an eternity away. 

 He was once again standing in the Cardinal Boras, reflecting over his life. He hadn't lived for long; little more than twenty-seven years, but he was already an acknowledged and revered officer. He wondered if this year might be his last in life? So much had happened in two short years. The Genestealers on Volrath hadn't been able to be contained; they'd spread to Ichar and in some extent even to Holy Secondus itself. There were purges mounted against them, but it wasn't stopping the coming of the gigantic Hive Fleet Behemoth. Yarrick could but hope it would turn away and leave the Imperium alone. Hive Fleet Kanker was one thing, Behemoth something entirely else. 

 Without notice, an Eldar Craftworld had appeared out of nowhere two years ago. Craftworld Pano. McKenzie had told Yarrick it meant 'plank', but the commissar hadn't become the wiser for that. The presence of the Eldarain was both reassuring and terrifying at the same time. None could understand the Eldar's true reason to be there, but to have one of the eldest races in the galaxy fighting by your side felt well. 

 And then there were the Berzerkers... They had managed to find a way to his home-world Callidus without using interstellar ships. It scared Yarrick very much, but he dared not confess it to anyone. Dark Lord Kevlinn's attacks became more and more desperate, and it McKenzie was right; it was all due to Rolf Yarrick. The thought didn't fancy him. 

 And now, they were en route to a planet beyond Volrath; the infamous jungle world Lost Hope. The heart of the cancer, as Irwin had referred to it, meaning the Hive Fleet that resided there. Rolf noticed the short man by his side suddenly, Skuli not far behind. The little mutant didn't seem to leave Irwin for a minute's notice. This behaviour amused Yarrick greatly. 

 "I tell you what, sir," Irwin said sincerely. "I don't like going to Lost Hope. It was there that the magnificent Grand Commander Dante lost his life, after all, and to this very Hive Fleet." 

 Rolf nodded. "Perhaps so, but we must aid these new Saviours as greatly as we can, no?" 

 "You refer to the Outlaws of the Omega Squadron? Yes, of course." Irwin turned silent a while. "'Saviours'... Almita coined that name, didn't she?" 

 "What do you believe?" Yarrick asked with a smile. 

 Irwin was just to reply when Skuli broke in. "Master, Lost Hope is a jungle world just like Morrokk, isn't it?" Skuli asked as he peered out the bay window. His yellow eyes seemed to glow with an inner light. 

 "Yes, it is." Yarrick replied; trying to see what Skuli was looking at. He soon found it. 

 "Then it is supposed to be lushly green," Skuli continued. Irwin had also taken interest in looking at the approaching ball that Lost Hope was. "How come it is scorch brown?" Skuli asked politely. 

 Irwin made the sign of the Aquila and said in a mournful tone, "Emperor watch over their souls..." 

 "Our Saviours can't be..." Skuli tried, but when he saw Master Yarrick's stern face, he fell quiet. 

 "Those Eldar will be in dire trouble if they are..." Yarrick said grimly. "Now we at least know why they departed so quickly." 

 None spoke this time. All they could do was to pray to the Emperor and hope that they weren't too late. 

To be Continued 


	3. Deamon Slayer part 1

**Deamon Slayer **

_"I didn't believe it was true when he proposed to me; but it was! To this day, I can't understand what he sees in me. But it's not hard the other way around, so to speak." _

** --Fiona McAllen, later Fiona Yarrick. **

 Commissar General Rolf Yarrick stood watching the manifold spires of Infernus Hive through the thick view-glass. It was fifteen years since the Space Outlaws of the Omega squadron had come and gone. Their six-day blitz was already the stuff of legend, and Yarrick could do naught more but agree. Quietly, to himself, he wondered what had made them so focused on their goal; to destroy Lord Kevlinn. It couldn't have been what he'd told them. They came from another world, Terra, and thus would not care much for a distant Imperium. But they had cared, and why, Yarrick knew not. 

 That of course; they hadn't killed Lord Kevlinn, but they had destroyed what he'd accomplished and they'd helped regain Armageddon. The planet was currently being repopulated and it was in need of a new government system. That was why Yarrick was still there, along with fifty of his staff. He had a faint idea of what it would be like, but not the absolute and minute details. Trying to ignore his political doings, he thought of the Dark Lord instead. It had been too easy to defeat him. Perhaps it was just a lucky shot on Yarrick's behalf, but still... So they had been four to one, and yet, something felt wrong. No Berzerker would ever do so and certainly not the Lord of them; retreat and use as base tactics as a thermo-detonator, would they? It seemed so wrong. Kevlinn had counted on that; he had been prepared. He had been prepared to lose Armageddon. He had a greater plan, but what? Yarrick rested his head against the cold, thick glass of the view-port and sighed. 

 He looked down at his left forearm and saw the scar from the knife that had made him blood brother with Grand Commander McGranth. It was a fine gesture and Yarrick enjoyed the friendship with the Space Marine. They trusted each other unswervingly. 

 Yarrick looked up and saw that Armageddon's yellow sky had turned red. It was closing on night now: an entire day given over to tedious politics. But, Yarrick concluded, it was neccessary to make Armageddon work again. The Imperium needed Tempestora's tank factories, the oil from the Deadlands, the ore from the Fire Wastes and much more. 

 He turned to his left and saw Irwin ambling out from the meeting room, Skuli skampering along behind him. Irwin had kept his promise and lost weight, though somewhere on the way, he must have found his comfortable weight and kept to that. That led to that he still was a bit plump but with his squat body, it didn't look out of place. It fitted him. His hair was now steel-grey with a salting of white at the temples, though the bushy moustache he'd grown was black. Yarrick believed he coloured it, though he didn't have the heart to ask. The little man was after all in his early sixties. 

 Skuli, on the other hand, had aged just as much as Yarrick: none at all. His skin had perhaps taken a slightly darker tone than it'd had twenty years earlier. Otherwise, it was the same little mutant as always. Yarrick had been adamant that the rest of the officers were to get used to Skuli and it had been done so. Skuli no longer used clothing with a cowl. 

 "What are you thinking about, Rolf?" Irwin asked softly. 

 "The Dark Lord," Yarrick replied silently. "He was up to something... He's not done with us in a long while..." 

 Irwin nudged Skuli and told him to fetch something. Irwin then turned to Yarrick again. "Perhaps you should focus on the new governing system of Armageddon instead, sir?" 

 "That is what made me think of the Dark Lord, Hendrik. How did he keep enough humans alive without making them cultists, because he did keep them alive and they are still loyal. That is what puzzles me, Hendrik." 

 Skuli came back with two beakers of caffeine and Irwin took one gratefully as did Yarrick. "I believe that we shouldn't even contemplate that, Rolf," Irwin said softly, but with a determined tone underneath. "No sane human should." Irwin went silent a moment and sipped his caffeine. "No sane, loyal human," he added. 

 Yarrick took a deep swig and nodded. It was true; no sane man should try to understand the tactics of the Etherdark's followers. He decided to aim the politics some thought instead. He wanted to finish the ruling system firstly and today if possible, even if it so would take all night. Yarrick knew they would have to have a military junta ruling the first fifty or so years, and he knew whom the High Lords wanted for that job: Commissar General Rolf Yarrick; himself. But they desperately needed something to replace the junta with and it wouldn't be as corrupt as Armageddon's ruling system before the Dark Lord's rule, which had been a rule of blood and mayhem. He had a wacky idea of something to keep it all in check. Yarrick gave his empty beaker back to Skuli, who also took Irwin's. 

 "Hendrik, call together the others. We'll finish this tonight." 

 The squat man nodded and went off to collect the other officers and commissars of the Callidussian regiments and the new-minted Armageddon Steel Legions. Yarrick himself went back into the conference room and stood himself before the great map covering the wall. It was a map over the southern Imperial systems. There was Armageddon, of course, and the Secondus system, Cathay, Morrokk and... Terra. Terra he knew the Omega Squad Outlaws had come from. He wondered what they did now? They had been younger than him, so they probably had families and busy lives. That Lexicanum Edd had seemed bright. Perhaps he'd won an award or something, despite being a witch. 

 Yarrick turned round and saw Irwin sitting down next to his own seat. Skuli hid in a corner of the room, trying to blend with the shadows. He also saw how the other officers came in; Colonel Kinthas of the Callidussian, Commissar Thurs, General Mikain of the Armageddon, Commissar Grauberger, Lord Commissar Kileth who was sent there on the Imperial Commissariat's behalf and a Zampolit Voshkov. These were the ones Yarrick new more personally. The others, so many as they were, he knew as associates and comrades-in-arms, but not as friends. 

 Grauberger sat down and put his hands on the table, rolling his thumbs. He sat next to Yarrick on the opposite side of Irwin. His hair was white now, one of his hands bionic. He was old, older than Irwin, and still in service. Yarrick admired his grit and duration, but one day Grauberger would break and that would be completely and sudden. Yarrick had gotten on good terms with him, though he still had a hidden disgust for Grauberger's arrogant ways. 

 Colonel Kinthas sat down next to Irwin. He was a tall, powerful man in his early forties with a genial way that seemed out of place with his fierce appearance. His face was covered in scars, many of them ritual as he came from a northern part of Callidus where ritual scarring was common practice. Yarrick trusted the man very much. They were both the same age and had a similar childhood, although Kinthas hadn't lost his parents to the Dark Lord. 

 Next to Grauberger, Lord Commissar Simen Kileth landed his corpulent bulk. Yarrick knew him from communiqées and not much more. However, he seemed to be an able man although much bound to paperwork as he undoubtedly was, considering his state. Yarrick doubted there was a wilier politician than Kileth in the entire Imperium. Kileth was nearly one metre ninety but his girth belied his actual height. Yarrick guessed him to be in his early fifties. He had a healthy tone to his round cheeks and seemed eternally calm as he reclined in his chair. Not even a psyker would've been able to tell his true feelings, Yarrick concluded. 

 Yarrick looked up and saw Michail Voshkov close the doors and then find no chair left for him. 

 "Highly peculiar..." Yarrick heard the Moskvanian political officer mumble before leaning his weight against the wall. Voshkov had been transferred to Armageddon for but one reason: to imply that the Moskvanian government system was the one way to rule. Voshkov as a person wasn't pushy, but his profession called for it at times. He was nearly two metres tall, well built and had the distinct heavy nose and red-blond hair of his people: an archetype Moskvanian. The one thing that made him out as a zampolit and not a full commissar was the laurel and star insignia on his cap, instead of the winged skull that the Imperial Commissariat used. He was in his mid-thirties and Yarrick knew him since many years back. His face seemed a tad thin, but Yarrick guessed it to be because of his austere life. In a way, Voshkov was as much opposite as one could get from the sumptuously living Kileth. 

 "Gentlemen," Yarrick addressed them all. "I sincerely hope we can end this... concern today. And, I might say, that it is now we will start dealing with how Armageddon is to be ruled. For real." Yarrick made a deliberate pause here. He wanted to see their reactions. Not much yet, but he didn't expect any either. 

 "Now, we do not want the same thing over again, do we? The last government Armageddon was ruled by had been much the same for nearly a hundred thousand years. And then came the Reign of the Dark, as we all know. The thing is that the Dark Lord had better control over the populace than the Imperial Governors ever could have dreamt of. And, gentlemen, before you start arguing; Lord Kevlinn had a happy workforce. He need not use whips. Hear me? They never even noticed the change from Imperium to Etherdark. It was smooth, flawless and unexpected. Not as violent as we'd think. Also, the Imperial governing system had been corrupt for a longer time back... much like Moskva was before the Revolution. The people were opressed and the nobility grew fat on the hard labour of the... what was the nice word you used to describe workers, comrade Voshkov?" 

 "Proletaires," Voshkov replied. 

 "Yes, the proletaires." Yarrick said and nodded. "It was laid out for a new Proletaire Revolution; this time on Armageddon. But it never happened. Why? I can give you the answer easily, gentlemen: they had no discipline or a charismatic and driven leader. Instead, and excuse me for my blaspheming, their salvation came from the Etherdark. Ironic, no? 

 "Now, as said, the old governing system was, and is, corrupt. It can't ever be put to use again. Therefore, I've worked out a new system. I got the idea after a visit to comrade Voshkov's wonderful homeworld Moskva." 

 Yarrick saw that Voshkov couldn't hide his soft smile. He'd touched the right button on him then... Now for the others as well. 

 "I sincerely hope you're all sitting comfortable, as you will be in for a long explaination, my friends," Yarrick said and smiled. He threw a quick glance at Voshkov by the wall; who shifted uneasily, and on the bulky form of Kileth. He seemed to be asleep, but Yarrick knew better. The lord commissar was listening to every word he was saying. 

 "The one thing we must have is an Imperial Lord. I have gone through some of the major influential families in the Imperium... and discarded all. I need a family untainted by the corruption of power. Thus, I made my choice amongst the merchants of Charvia." Yarrick noticed, in the corner of his eye, how Grauberger became suddenly very interested. He was, after all, from Charvia, the same world that was the home of the Black Templars Space Marines. "I will reveal the family in time," Yarrick added after a short pause. "Before they get to rule, we will however have a military junta leading Armageddon. Unluckily, for myself, the High Lords are adamant that I should lead this junta..." Yarrick let out a sigh, which was met by a slight chuckle from the assembled men. 

 "Now, this Imperial Governor, or Lord, should not be bound by other things than that the tithes are collected in time and the qouta of Imperial Guard filled. Thus, each of the eight major hives will be ruled over by a seperate Hive Monitor family for each hive. The Adeptus Administratum will choose these, as they have check on such things. Also, each of these hives is to have eight High Noble houses, nine if we count the Hive Monitors. Should the Monitor family in some way fail, the Adeptus Arbites may remove them and install a High Noble family instead." 

 "But," Commissar Thurs interrupted. "This system, it is very much alike the one that Armgeddon had once. Besides, it seems you have it pretty much planned out, Commissar General." 

 "Yes, in fact I have. I just see this as an example. A sound example, though. You may come with comments later," Yarrick replied smoothly. He took up where he'd left. "Also, each hive will have one hundred and forty four Noble families. They will each be responsible for a part of the hive and answer to a High Noble family. They are to make sure that taxes are paid and such. Then come two hundred and eighty eight Houses Common. These will be the servant families of the Noble families, though not the High Noble families. Two Houses Common per Noble family. 

 "These are the cogs of the governing system of Armageddon. Together with the workers and clerks by the billions that form Armageddon's populace, they will make this world flourish once again. Now, they all need economical stimulance. All worlds need such to work. Thus, I have the idea of having so called Guild houses, or Merchant families. Two hundred and twenty four Merchant families and sixty four Merchant Lords-" 

 "Excuse me, Yarrick," Kileth interrupted. "Why Merchant Lords?" 

 "Someone must ensure concurrence is upheld, and keep from monopoly creation, no?" 

 "Yes, so?" 

 "The Merchant Lords will, in my ideas, have the power to split up cartels and such, with the Imperium behind themsleves. They will, however, not be able to create monopolies themselves. The Merchant Lords will just be priviligied Merchants, and I hope we can make this a circulating rank, so to speak." 

 "Sounds good..." Kileth said silently and nodded slowly. "But, what about Law enforcment? All Hive worlds have problems with that." 

 Here's where I've got you all, Yarrick thought to himself. 

 "That is why I made my trip to Moskva..." Yarrick said softly. He gave a slight smile and was met by interested eyes. "Moskva is, as you all know, a highly industrialised world. Crime should be rife. Alas, it is not. Moskva has an incredibly low crime rate. Why is this? It puzzled me, until I found the obvious answer..." Yarrick fell silent to even further heighten interest. "What institute has total control of all affairs? Which organisation makes sure that crime is kept low, and that the Arbites do their job? Who makes sure that the council of governors stays loyal and isn't corrupted? The answer, gentlemen, is the same as the answer to our question of how to control Armageddon once the junta is used up, so to speak. 

 "The answer lies within the Naroddnyj Komissariat, my frie-" 

 "Are you seriously suggesting another planetbased commissariat?" Kileth interrupted. "The Imperial Commissariat has already sheer hell in keeping sure that the zampolits of Moskva doesn't stray!" 

 Kileth didn't notice that Voshkov's glare behind him. And if he did, he ignored it. 

 "An Armageddon Commissariat is the only way to remain in control, Kileth," Yarrick replied smoothly. 

 "Yarrick! Sincerely, there has to be another way!" Kileth was now standing up, his bulk shaking with restrained rage. "You have no idea of how much work it is behind it all, do you? You're not more politician than the Dark Lord himself!" 

 "Watch your mouth, Lord Commissar," Grauberger growled. 

 Kileth threw a sidelong glance at Grauberger and spat, "Frekk you!" 

 "Kileth, please," Irwin said softly, "calm down. This is no good for your health-" 

 "You," Kileth bellowed and pointed a stubby finger at Irwin, "shut up!" 

 Irwin went silent. Yarrick couldn't take how this man was treating one of his best friends and turned to look Kileth straight in the eyes. Few could withstand his cool, penetrating gaze, but Kileth persisted. Yarrick was amazed. 

 "Kileth, listen. The Armageddon Commissariat would be self-sufficient considering administrative things. We would only have to make sure they use the same teachings as us, perhaps modified to fit Armageddon's nature as a Hive world." 

 "I've been trying to tell you that that is what clogs up the Commi-" 

 Kileth suddenly fell backwards and landed with a crash on the floor. The entire collection of officers was dumbstruck at the sudden happening. Skuli was fast on his feet and inspected Kileth as he lay gasping for air on the floor. 

 "Heart attack?" Kinthas asked and voiced everyone's suspiscions. Skuli shook his head. He touched a spot on Kileth's chest with his sturdy digit, scraped a bit and took it up and showed it to those that had flocked around him. Irwin saw immediately what it was. 

 "Colonel Kinthas, get a medic, now!" Irwin shouted and the Callidussian colonel scurried off. Irwin knew needle weaponry when he saw it. 

 In the mean time Yarrick, Grauberger and Voshkov had found out why the Moskvanian zampolit had had no seat. An unknown man had dressed up as a Steel Legion officer, sat down with the others and waited for the right moment to strike. His shot had been well placed and timed. The compact needle pistol had lost no force over the short distance across the table. 

 Now, Yarrick was leading the chase on the Dark servant. Grauberger and Voshkov weren't far behind. The cultist was damned quick, but Yarrick evidently had height on his side and kept up with his pace. 

 The cultist rounded a corner and came out into the entrance lobby of the council room. The lobby was packed with people and the cultist didn't hestitate to shoot at the civilians and militaires. He felled two generals and five colonels with quick and silent shots from his needle pistol. He dove out of the lobby, Yarrick not far behind, shouting to people to get medics quick and to get out of the frekking way. 

 As Yarrick got out on the gantry, he just saw the cultist toss a woman and a child out of an elevator and go down one level. 

 Yarrick ran over to the railing of the gantry and looked down. He saw the cultist run out down below. The street below wasn't as packed as this one and it wasn't so far down. Yarrick swung a leg over the railing. 

 "Yarrick, no!" Grauberger shouted as he saw his commander jump over the railing and down. He reached the railing at the same time as Voshkov and saw Yarrick run after the cultist. 

 "You must admire comrade Yarrick's courage, comrade Grauberger," Voshkov said in his rich Moskvanian dialect. 

 "You should know, Voshkov, that there's a very thin line between courage and madness," Grauberger mumbled silently. He turned round and ran over to another elevator, gently pushing aside the woman who'd come out of it together with her husband. "Excuse me, mississ. Commissariat business," he said and dragged Voshkov into the elevator. 

 One level below, Yarrick was chasing the cultist. He had drawn his bolt pistol, the weapon that once had belonged to his mentor. But he couldn't fire here, in risk of hitting innocent people. 

 "Stop!" he shouted for all the help it would do. "You are only prolonging the invitable, heretic!" 

 The cultist turned hard round a corner and ran down some stairs. Yarrick didn't think twice on running. He took a giant leap into the air and landed hard on the cultist's back. The two rolled in a heap down to the foot of the staircase. The cultist was first up of the two, but a firm grip around his ankle felled him flat. The Etherdark follower rolled round and looked up into the grim face of the commissar general. Yarrick sat down on his chest, putting the cultist's wrists under his knees, preventing him from moving. 

 "Let's have a talk, scum," Yarrick hissed and placed the bolt pistol against the cultist's forehead. "Who sent you?" 

 "Frekk off, Imperial dog!" the cultist spat hoarsely. It seemed someone had conducted some amateur surgery on his larynx. 

 Yarrick pushed in the bolt pistol slightly. "Who sent you?" he repeated. 

 The cultist seemed to recognise whom the man sitting astride him was. "You of all people should know!" he growled and then spat a vad of blood in Yarrick's eye. Yarrick removed it with a gloved finger and then leant closer to the cultist. 

 "Way wrong answer, scum!" he hissed and pulled the trigger of the bolt pistol, smearing the cultist's brain over the street. 

 Seemingly pleased with having done his duty, Yarrick stood up and holstered his bolt pistol. Voshkov and Grauberger had finally caught up with him now. 

 "Well, that was neccessary, now was it?" Grauberger said in his disturbing, haughty way. 

 "He was a cultist, Karl, not a leader. A minion. They know nothing of worth. Besides, I think I know where he comes from." 

 "A minion with needle weaponry?" Grauberger sneered. 

 "You'd be amazed at what they can get their hands on, Karl," Yarrick returned smoothly

 "Tell us who sent him then," Voshkov said simply. 

 "Probably a still active cult in the Underhives, serving indirectly under the Dark Lord. Voshkov, inform General Mikain that we might have to flush out the underhives, ASAP. And get someone to clean this up." 

 Voshkov left and Grauberger was just to follow him, when Yarrick grabbed his arm. "Karl, wait, I want to talk to you." 

 "About what, sir?" Grauberger asked. 

 Yarrick seemed thoughtful for a while, and then spoke, "What do you think of the Armageddon Commissariat?" 

 "Soundest idea you've ever had. And frankly, Rolf, most officers present most surely did agree with you. Kileth just overreacted." 

 "Good," Yarrick said and fell silent. He studied his surroundings and spoke again. "What do you think of Infernus hive?" 

 "Nice place. I especially like the Opera House. Well," Grauberger added, as an afterthought, "at least when they've rebuilt it... I might go there when, and if, I retire." 

 Yarrick nodded thoughtfully. "Very well... What would you say of early retirement?" 

 Grauberger just stared at his commander. "Wha-?" he managed. 

 "I wondered what you would think of early, or whatever, retirement? It is, as a matter of fact, way past your time, Karl." 

 "I have considered it, Rolf. It is just..." Grauberger sighed, "I have nowhere to go to once I've retired." 

 "You do," Yarrick replied simply. "I said I had checked Charvia's noble families and that included the Graubergers; your family. You might be arrogant, but you are sound folks. What would you say of retiring as a commissar, only to become an Infernus Hive Merchant Noble, eh?" 

 Commissar Karl Grauberger didn't know what to say. 

 It was a week after the incident with the shooting and Lord Commissar Simen Kileth had just awoken from his unconsciousness. He was sitting up in his medical cot, Commissar General Rolf Yarrick sitting on a chair nearby. Yarrick wasn't in uniform and that lead to a more open conversation between the two. Kileth had excused himself several times for his behavior, as he now had been able to study Yarrick's data on how the new Armageddon ruling system was to work. In the past week, Yarrick and the other politicos had been working hard on working out a governing system, based on Yarrick's ideas. The same went for the Armageddon Commissariat. But that was not the matters they discussed now. 

 "Are you saying I was minutes from death, Rolf?" Kileth asked and shifted uneasily. 

 "If Skuli hadn't seen that it was 'needle work' and not a cardiac, as all others thought, you'd be very dead, Simen." Yarrick replied softly. 

 "Skuli..." Kileth mused. "That's that mutant of yours, right?" 

 "I know it seems like heresy, but Skuli is one of my best men." 

 "No, no, I wasn't thinking of that, Rolf," Kileth said excusingly. "I was going to say that we need more men like him... psychologically." 

 "I see your point, Simen," Yarrick said and smiled. 

 The two were silent for a while. Kileth shifted his bulk again. 

 "'Needle work'?" he asked. 

 "Needle weaponry," Yarrick replied. "Loaded with choke toxin. It was slowly filling your lungs with fluid." 

 "I'll be damned," Kileth muttered. 

 "You almost were, weren't you?" Yarrick replied with a wry smile. 

 Kileth chuckled. "The Commissar Yarrick I've heard of isn't gifted with such a caustic wit. When did this appear, Rolf?" 

 "Recently..." Yarrick answered. He was about to add something when a low rumbling cut him off. Yarrick looked around and then stared at Kileth. 

 "What the hell was that?" Yarrick asked. 

 Kileth smiled warmly and put a hand on his big belly. "I might get nourishment through the infusion, but it doesn't give my stomach anything to work with. What I wouldn't do for a hearty meal right now..." 

 "I think you'll do fine in losing some weight, Simen," Yarrick replied and rested his head in his hands. "Don't you?" 

 "Even fat people turn hungry, Rolf," Kileth replied with a grin. Yarrick nodded his assent. "What's the matter? There's something on your mind, isn't there, Rolf?" 

 "Indeed there is," Yarrick replied and looked troubled. "You see, Simen, the junta will of course govern Armageddon until the government system is stabilized. Alas, the Armageddon Commissariat goes into the works in a few years. It was fairly simple to arrange, see. It has a programme laid out to train officers of the Armageddon Steel Legions to political officers, as well as taking full-fledged commissars from the ranks of the Imperium. It even has an army of clerks ready. But what it doesn't have is a leader, a chief commissar. There, we are found wanting. And I need an able politician there, not a warrior." 

 "I follow you, Rolf," Kileth replied as Yarrick looked at him. 

 "Now, that it isn't to be a warrior effectively rules me out, no? Besides, the Imperial High Lords wants me as leader of the junta those fifty years, curse their hides. I persuaded Grauberger into retiring and move here with his entire family, and become a Marchant Lord of Infernus that the Imperial authorities could trust. But I need an even more able man as chief commissar." 

 "Your man; Irwin. What about him?" Kileth suggested. 

 "Too old. Too unimaginative," Yarrick replied with a sigh. "No, I need a wily politician, if not the wiliest. Lord Commissar Simen Kileth, what would you say about ruling the Armageddon Commissariat?" 

 Kileth was stunned. "I- I don't know what to say..." he mumbled. 

 "Your life wouldn't change much," Yarrick tried. 

 Kileth was silent a long while. He scratched his double chin in deep thought. After a few minutes he spoke. 

 "Ah, what the hell?" he said and smiled. "I'll do it, but you must stand for a dinner in Infernus main spire resturant Templum Diynos." 

 Yarrick clasped Kileth's plump hand tightly. "Whatever it takes to convince you, Simen. Whatever it takes." 


	4. Deamon Slayer part 2

Commissar General Rolf Yarrick contemplated his life as he stood watching Hive Hades below himself. He was in the main spire, several kilometres up in the air, in the room where Hive Monitor Christoph Artis had governered his Hive. Where the Hive Monitor was now, Yarrick knew not. Perhaps he was covering in a refugee camp somewhere. Maybe he even was off world and in safety. God-Emperor love him if he was. War raged on the streets and paths far below in the Hive. The Second Armageddon War raged. 

 Suddenly, he slammed his fist forcefully into the panzerglass of the view-port. 

 "This shouldn't be happening!" he shouted out loud. His one companion in the room, Grand Commander Eddie McGranth seemed unmoved by the commissar general's sudden outburst. 

 "McKenzie spoke of a new cloaking device. Perhaps spawn from his new allies, the dark eldar?" McGranth spoke softly. His Terminator armour whirred as he turned and moved over to Yarrick by the viewport. 

 "Damn that witch, McGranth," Yarrick said and fixed McGranth with a hard stare. "Unless he can give a straight answer, he should shut up!" 

 "Now, Rolf, ease up! This is not the end of the world!" 

 Yarrick turned and grinned like a wolf, as that was the only way he could grin. "No, you are wrong, Eddie. This is the end of the world! This is Armageddon, after all!" 

 McGranth sighed. "Chomaki would've told you not to lose hope and so do I." 

 "Do so, because I haven't lost faith. Not in the Adeptus Astartes, but in Armageddon ever becoming what it once was! As recently as four years ago, there was an attempted assassination on me! Why? Because the ass-hole wanted to rule the junta instead of me! Lord General Kurth became traitor and heretic to gain power, Eddie. Power corrupts, and Armageddon is the best example of that." 

 McGranth sighed and turned to leave. "Whatever," he said, "but you should know, most people see you as what you are; an Imperial Hero. Don't forget that, Rolf. Now, if you excuse me, I have a Legion to lead." 

 And thus, McGranth left Yarrick alone with his thoughts. Yarrick shuffled over to the desk and sat down heavily in the comfortable chair. He was fifty-seven years old and wanted to live longer than that. But every time he looked into the mirror, he saw a thirty-year-old man. Something was wrong with him. Very wrong. 

 He had lately confronted Inquisitor Rovannion personally and demanded an answer to why he wasn't ageing. Rovannion himself didn't seem a day older than when Rolf had first seen him, all those years ago home on Callidus... when Uncle Caspar was still alive... 

 Yarrick wiped away the tears that had formed in his eyes at the thought of his grand-cousin. He felt a sudden warm feeling inside of him and started up. He realised it was hatred, pure hatred, towards the beast that had robbed him so: Dark Lord Kevlinn, or Kharn, as he called himself nowadays. It didn't matter. Yarrick was going to present the head of the Dark Lord, no matter his name, before the Golden Throne of the Emperor. No matter the cost! 

 A soft knock on the door of the office brought Yarrick out of his thoughts. He walked over to the control board and opened the door. As it slid away with a soft hiss, a small man leaning on a cane limped in. He wasn't more than one metre fifty, his hair was white as was his moustache and his eyes were dark brown and gentle. Yarrick knew who it was. 

 "Hendrik Irwin! God-Emperor! What are you doing here?" 

 "Just visiting," Irwin said and smiled warmly. Yarrick wasn't slow to bring the old man a chair to sit down in. Irwin heard how Yarrick muttered in Callidussian under his breath. 

 "Kersani! Inamu hun karn! Mitikor un brekan! Karn! Karn!" 

 "Now, show some respect for the eldery, Rolf," Irwin said as he put down his cane. "And I am not crazy, mind you!" 

 Yarrick turned and looked over his shoulder as he hung Irwin's coat on a hook. "You know Callidussian, Hendrik?" 

 "Keni," Irwin replied, using the Calidussian word for 'little'. Irwin saw Yarrick's look and added, "You said 'Emperor! He has to be crazy! Come in the middle of a war! Crazy! Crazy!" 

 "Exactly my words, Hendrik," Yarrick replied and sat down in front of the little man. "So, then you know what my name, and Chomaki's, mean, right?" 

 "Bless his soul, I do," Irwin said and smiled. "Yarrick is the Callidussian word for wolfhound, although it is spelled why-ay-ar-eye-kei-kei. And Chomaki is the word for eagle." 

 "And double eagle is taochomaki." Yarrick smiled. "It has been such a long time since I spoke Callidussian with anybody, I was afraid I'd forgotten. So what brings you here, Hendrik?" 

 Irwin gestured around himself. "This war," he said idly. "It shouldn't be happening, right?" 

 Yarrick nodded. "Indeed. And all these... dark eldar. I do not like it." 

 "Of course," Irwin said and sighed. "Rolf, the reason I'm here is because of Skuli. He's worrying me." 

 "Skuli? What's wrong with him?" 

 "I found him sitting wide awake in the middle of the night. He was sitting in a patch of moonlight, looking at the moon that cast it." 

 "And?" 

 "I walked up to him and asked why he was sitting there, and Skuli replied 'It's not genuine.'" 

 "What did he mean with that?" Yarrick questioned, surprised. 

 "I have no idea either," Irwin replied, "I was hoping you'd know. But my guess is it has something to do with Armageddon." 

 "Is that all, Hendrik?" 

 "Yes, I think so," the little man replied and got up. Yarrick helped him on with his coat and followed Irwin to the door. There, the old man suddenly stopped and looked up into Yarrick's face, concern shining in his gentle eyes. 

 "Rolf, believe me, something isn't right with this war. I feel it." 

 "So do I, Hendrik, but Kharn is now here and we will defeat him." 

 "Of course," Irwin said and smiled sadly, "but they managed to get Kileth after all, now didn't they?" 

 "So you heard, didn't you?" Yarrick said and looked pained. 

 "I'm sorry, Rolf," Irwin comforted and grabbed Yarrick's left arm gently. "I know how much the Armageddon Commissariat mean to you, and in losing Kileth, you lost a very valuable man." 

 "So we did..." Yarrick replied and was silent for the rest of the day. Irwin left him alone and went home. Yarrick would seek his comfort in battle, as he always did, though. 

 The Berzerker never saw the silver gleaming sword coming. Its head rolled on the ground amongst rubble and body parts and its massive body toppled over like a great oak. Rolf Yarrick leapt clear of it easily. He was fighting on the streets of Helsreach Hive, accompanied by an entire regiment of Helsreach Hive Defence Force, HDF for short. 

 A quick spin and Yarrick brought his sword round in an arc that decapitated several cultists. There were millions of them, he silently concluded. Millions. And the Berzerkers weren't even a thousand. The dark eldars' numbers he didn't even want to contemplate. To him, they were sadistic aliens that only could serve the universe by dying by his sword. 

 Yarrick jumped up and landed his jackboots firmly in the back of a cultist. His group comrades turned round and faced the Imperial Commissar. Their first mistake, and last. Yarrick brought his sword round and sliced through them all with an ease that could only be fuelled by fury. And it was fury Yarrick felt burning inside of him. It had been nearly a month since Irwin had visited, but what the little man's visit had dredged up from Yarrick's memory still burned. But it was welcomed and relished. It meant his hatred would burn higher against these followers of the Etherdark. 

 A close swipe to his head brought him back to reality. An immense Berzerker stood berfore him. The chain axe in its hands had nearly swept Yarrick's head off. The beast raised the axe again and charged at the commissar. 

 Yarrick ducked away and let his sword gently pass through the right shoulder pad of the power armoured monstrosity. It roared in pain and brought itself round to attack once again. Yarrick ducked underneath the wild swing of the chain axe and burrowed his blade into the chest of the Berzerker. As the beast toppled forward, Yarrick pulled the blade free and decapitated the Marine. 

 "Let them burn! Burn the heretics! Let them feel the purifying flame of the Emperor's Wrath!" Yarrick bellowed as he charged at the blood red horde before them once again. 

 It took the Imperial force of HDF nigh on four hours to claim the cathedral that was their objective. But still, there seemed no end to their enemies. The Berzerkers had dimnished, perhaps called to serve elsewhere, but the cultists were still numerous. Alas, the one thing that disheartened Yarrick the most was the sight of the long-limbed, dark purple armoured dark eldar. He recognised their kin: A dark eldar lord and his retinue of Incubi bodyguards and ordinary warriors. 

 "Kill the aliens and purge the heretics!" Yarrick roared and led a squad of Imperial Guard storm troopers against the dark eldar lord. The hellguns of the storm troopers spat deadly lasfire against the aliens. One of the troopers welded a grenade launcher and shot off a fragmentation grenade at the dark eldar. When the smoke dispersed, it showed that every warrior in the squad was dead, but the lord and his Incubi were unscathed. 

 "Frekk," Yarrick muttered and led the squad in a charge towards the lord. 

 Battle ensued between the two forces and Yarrick squared up with the lord. The tall, thin alien was wearing armour with many sharp blades along with a grotesque death's mask on his tall helmet. In his hands he held a glaive with wickedly shaped blades in both ends. His armour matched his warriors' with it's deep purples. 

 Yarrick prepared himself for a long battle. He was not to be disappointed. 

 The alien was quick, quicker than anyone Yarrick had ever met before. There seemed to be no end to the many swipes that the lord could perform with his glaive. After one graceful sweep of the glaive, Yarrick managed to get a stab in at the dark eldar, only to see the sword reflected by an invisible shield. Noticing the human's feeble attack, the dark eldar swung round in another graceful sweep with his glaive. 

 Yarrick ducked back, just avoiding the glaive and striking in at the lord again with his sword. Once again it rebounded off an invisible wall. The dark eldar quickly spun round and fired the scorpion tail like contraption on its helmet. Yarrick dodged that too. Now he knew what it was for at least. 

 The two were locked in combat for a long time, neither gaining the upper hand. However, after a good five minutes, Yarrick noticed frustration in the haughty alien's movements. He guessed it was because the vile creature couldn't understand how a human held him off. The frustration led to lack of concentration, and the lack of concentration meant that Yarrick could get a firm grip on the glaive after one too frustrated swing on the dark eldar's behalf. Yarrick pulled the alien closer to him and sent his sword towards the head of the alien, knocking off the scorpion tail. 

 Wrenching the glaive from the dark eldar's hands, Yarrick threw him off himself and charged in with the sword. This time, the shadow field merely fizzled and the deamonslayer sword passed easily through armour, flesh and bone. The head of the lord flew through the air whilst the body slumped to the ground. 

 Yarrick checked himself. The Imperial storm troopers had managed to take down the Incubi bodyguard through sheer weight of numbers. But it had cost them. 

 And it would continue to cost them to regain Armageddon from the Dark Lord's grasp. Life was the Emperor's and the Imperium currency. 

 Rallying his men for the next charge, Rolf Yarrick contemplated this. It was the only way. Not only for him, but for the Imperium. The only way to remain a part of the Galaxy was war. All out, total and unforgiving war. 

 Howling in fury, Rolf Yarrick led his men in a charge of glory. They would reclaim Armageddon, whatever it may cost!


	5. Deamon Slayer part 3

 "Raiyah! How could he miss that one?" Katsuro Daichi, Cadet Commissar, shouted as the star kickballer missed an obvious goal attempt. 

 "That means 2-1 to the Helsreachians, Cadet Daichi," the bartender, a stout, middle-aged man named Fermeaux said softly. "Seems you'll lose our little bet, then." 

 "The game's not over yet," Daichi said confidently. 

 "The Helsreachians aren't up to it," a voice said softly by Daichi's side. The young Cathayan turned and looked at the tall, lean figure in the black greatcoat. The bluish-black hair that stuck out from underneath his peaked cap gave him away. 

 Commissar General Rolf Yarrick sat down next to his cadet. Katsuro Daichi wasn't his first cadet. He was his third and most promising so far. 

 "Really, why do you reckon so, sir?" Daichi asked. 

 "They've been dragged around with player damage for a long time," Yarrick said simply. "Also, the Armageddon Commissarial team is quite good, no?" 

 "They are," Fermeaux agreed. "The usual, commissar general?" 

 "If that means Callidussian whiskey; yes, please," Yarrick replied amiably. Daichi took the chance to have a refill of his Cathayan sake. 

 Yarrick spun round on his chair and took in the entire of Upper Spire Bar 23/gn, also known as the "Skull and Laurel" because of all the commissars who frequented it after they'd gone off-duty. There were mostly Armageddon Commissars at the Skull and Laurel, but it happened that Imperial Commissars, like Yarrick and Daichi, dropped in. Of course, Yarrick was the leader of the military junta of Armageddon and Daichi was his cadet, so they were both more or less stationed here on unknown time, but still. 

 Yarrick looked back at Daichi. "Do you want another reason that the Helreachians won't win, Katsuro?" 

 Daichi tore his eyes from the tele-slate and looked at Yarrick. "Go ahead, sir." 

 "If they now do win, against all odds," Yarrick said with a soft smile, "and do knock out the Commissarial team, the Commissariat of Armageddon will claim that the tournament never took place." 

 Daichi snorted with laughter. He was already familiar with how the Commissariat functioned, despite his tender age of twenty. Heck, Yarrick thought, at that age, I was a commissar cadet as well. Now, he silently reflected, he was to be seventy years old next month. And he didn't look a day over thirty. 

 There was a shrill whistle-blow from the tele-slate, and the entire bar erupted into cheers. Armageddon Commissarial had won, and Daichi had lost his bet with the bartender. Daichi easily fished out fifty Imperial crowns from his waistcoat pocket. 

 "C'est la vie," Fermeaux said as he scooped down the Imperial crowns into his big hands. "Better luck next time, mon fils." 

 "Hai," Daichi replied, using his own dialect of Low Gothic to counter Fermeaux' Low Armageddonian. "Next time. If there's going to be one." 

 Yarrick raised his glass. "For the Armageddon Commissarial kickball team, Katsuro. Worthy opponents and winners, no?" 

 "Yes, indeed," Daichi replied and raised his own glass. "As we say on Cathay: Wunsai!" With that, Daichi knocked the shot back easily. 

 "Wunsai," Yarrick replied and sipped his own drink. 

 The evening continued in a cheery mood for all of them. However, at half-past one, Yarrick felt enough was enough and thanked everyone present for the fine company they'd been, as he'd always had done. He tried to convince Daichi to come with him, but the young commissar cadet wanted to stay with the others. Yarrick decided to leave well enough alone and left by himself. 

 For being a hive, Hive Infernus was awfully quiet at night. At least in the upper spires. The sodium lamps that had been lighted as the night-cycle had been begun cast stark light and equally stark shadows all around. 

 Yarrick wondered if there were places were the sodium lights never shone their crime-damning light. He also wondered, what he'd be doing with his life. He was now sixty-nine years Standard Imperial. Soon to be seventy. 

 And he had no children. 

 The thought struck him as a battle-axe. He was famous and powerful, everything an ambitious man would want to be, but he had no family to share it with. The thought saddened him, to say the least. Where would he find a wife? Who would love him in any other way than as the Liberator of Armageddon? He thought of old Hendrik Irwin. The old man was over eighty now, nearly ninety. Irwin had loved him as a son, hadn't he? Same went for Chomaki in those days. 

 But Yarrick had played the son. He wanted to play the patriarch for once. He wanted someone who loved him in the word's sexual sense too. 

 He came to think of Skuli, but that had been a master-servant relation. And Skuli had the same relationship with Irwin, who was the main concern of the little mutant these days. 

 A sudden pang crossed Yarrick's mind again, and the horror of it made him stop dead in his tracks. 

 He was the last member of his entire family! The Yarrick family would end with him, if he didn't do something about it. Suddenly, it seemed to him that it was his duty to find a wife to love and have children with, not only something his love-sick heart longed for. 

 Yarrick shook his head. He was going to life forever in the annals and codices of Imperial History, and most surely mortally as well, but he'd never leave anything behind. No children. No grand-children. Life had a cruel sense of humour. 

 Fiona McAllen, born Icharian but now in the Upper Spires of Infernus Hive, felt for once safe. It wasn't often she felt safe. Her entire life had been a long run to escape something. The latest example was the pimp she'd been working for. "His property", eh? Right. She had her own soul and nobody would have it if she didn't want them to. They could take her body, frekk, they could take her. But they wouldn't ever have her soul. 

 She was young, not more than twenty-three years old, and painfully beautiful. She'd never needed the use of make-up, not even in her so-called profession. Men had chosen her anyway. And they paid really good, though she'd only get a little share of that. At current, her brown hair was long and tied in a pony-tail. As all people of her planet, she was tatooed. Hers was a blue Icharian knot over her right wrist. She was wearing a knee-length, white jeans skirt, black tanktop in velvet and a white jeans jacket. Her feet were in white sneakers and gold necklaces hung around her neck. Despite she wasn't at work, she was an inviting sight. 

 She stopped dead. What had that sound been? She shrugged and kept on going. She passed a dark alleyway. 

 And a massive hand reached out and snatched her from the street. It placed itself over her mouth, clamping it shut so she wouldn't scream. Fiona didn't scream outwardly, but inwardly she screamed for it to stop, to never happen again. She was right, in a way... 

 Yarrick strolled down the gantry. His mind was still heavy with thoughts of family and much else. He thought of paying Irwin a visit again. It always calmed his mind to see the old man. He had much experiences from life and was a great knower of people. What Irwin lacked physically, he more than well made up psychologically. Hendrik Irwin was his surrogate father, Yarrick had to conclude. 

 He passed an alleyway and heard some muffled sounds from it. At first he thought it was homeless trying to make some sort of ranking and a cosy jumble to keep warm. It took Yarrick five seconds to recall that he was in Hive Infernus' Upper Spire. There were no homeless people here! 

 He walked back and strolled silently into the alley. It was dark, but he could clearly make out what was happening. 

 There was one big man, not as tall as himself, but much broader. He was holding a girl firmly in his muscly arms. He had two companions, shorter and lankier, unbuckling their waistbelts and getting ready. 

 "Gentlemen," Yarrick said softly, but he got their attention immediately. "I don't think the young lady wants to, so let her go." 

 "Frekk off, spirer!" the thug shouted. "Who the hell do you think you are?" 

 Yarrick reached into his coat and picked out a light-stick. It was a common thing employed by Guardsmen who didn't want to waste batteries and only needed very little light. Thing with the light-sticks was, that if in contact with flammable material, they would ignite the material in question. 

 Yarrick broke off the top of the ten centimetres long light-stick and dropped it into a pile of papers. He aimed no contemplation as to why there was a pile of paper there. 

 The paper-pile broke into flames. The yellowish flames gave light to the scene. There was the thug, holding a beautiful young woman firmly, so that his two friends could her easily. 

 And there was Commissar General Rolf Yarrick in his black dress-uniform. He looked straight back at the thug, who now had a very shocked expression on his face. 

 "I think I am an Imperial Commissar," Yarrick replied coolly. 

 Before the two lanky men had time to draw their laspistols, Yarrick had smoothly drawn his own side-arm: Chomaki's bolt pistol. The weapon still served him gallantly. 

 The bolt weapon barked once and glanced the nearest of the lanky twosome's throat. The result was that half of the man's neck disappeared. He fell to the ground, stone dead. 

 The second one fired his las pistol at Yarrick. The shot would've hit, if Yarrick hadn't had his extroadinary reflexes. He dodged to the left and fired his bolt pistol again. The shot struck the man in his pistol holding hand, exploding the las pistol and the man's hand. He fell screaming to the ground. 

 The thug threw off the girl, who landed on the ground next to the screaming and convulsing man without any right hand. 

 "I give frekk in that you're a black coat or not, you're gonna die, man!" the thug roared and he charged in with his fists at Yarrick. Instead of firing another round and finishing the job quick and easy, Yarrick sent one of his legs into the elbow of the onrushing thug, breaking it. The force of the kick sent the thug off balance. He crashed to the ground, whimpering and holding his broken left elbow. 

 Yarrick grabbed the thug's head by what little hair he had left and pulled the man's face up to face him. With his free hand, Yarrick raised the bolt pistol and pointed it between the thug's eyes. 

 "Bang," Yarrick said silently, "you're dead." 

 For being a man whom his entire life had relied on muscle power and some brute resemblence of courage, the big thug wet himself for the first time since he'd been three years old. 

 "Raiyah!" Cadet Daichi yepled as he entered the alleyway together with three other commissars. "Yarrick-san, what has happened here?" 

 "Cadet Daichi," Yarrick said slowly, "get a medic, and an arbitrator. These men are accused of rape..." Yarrick went silent. "Or attempted rape. It still rings disgustingly in my ears. To sink so low." He pulled a little in the thug's hair. "I should shoot you here and now, know that!" He then let go. 

 "All three?" Daichi said and indicated the two prone men. 

 "Only two, one is dead," Yarrick replied coolly. Daichi scurried away to find what he'd been ordered and took one of the Armageddonian commissars with him. The other two went to help the two criminals into the street so it would be easier for the arbiters to pick them up. 

 Yarrick, on the other hand, went over to the young woman. He helped her up and quickly saw how torn her clothes were. Instinctively, he got out of his greatcoat and offered it to her. The air was a bit chilly this night. 

 She gladly took it and put it on. He walked her out of the alley. 

 "Dare I ask for your name, sir," she asked cautiously. Yarrick noted her rich Icharian dialect. He didn't blame her for being afraid. The warrior in him was a terrible thing to see up close, especially if you weren't used to it. 

 "I am Imperial Commissar Rolf Yarrick," he said and looked at her. God-Emperor she was beautiful! If he was to have a wife, he'd want one like her. 

 "The Liberator of Armageddon?" she said, startled. 

 "Are there any other Yarricks of your knowledge?" Yarrick said and cocked an eyebrow. 

 She shook her head. 

 "Can I ask for you name, miss," Yarrick asked politely. 

 "Fiona McAllen," she replied. "Thank you so much, commissar. But I wasn't cautious. I should've been." 

 "You were cautious. They are the criminals, not you. Tell me, miss McAllen, is it a crime on Ichar to be born pretty?" 

 She shook her head again. 

 "Good," Yarrick said and smiled. "Neither is it on Callidus." 

 Little did he know that this was only the beginning of the happiest part of his life. 

 Rolf Yarrick looked up into the sky. He was back on his home-soil; County Invas, Callidus. And he loved every second of it. It was all made better that today he was to be married to one of the most beautiful, loving and intelligent women he'd ever met. 

 The sky had the same colour as the Omega Squadron Space Outlaws' armour, he concluded to himself. And not a cloud in sight! The last two years had thankfully been very silent on the war-front. A few skirmishes, but that was all. 

 Deep within, he knew Kharn was planning something. However, he decided not to bother his mind with this. Not now anyway. 

 He checked himself over. He was clad in his best dress-uniform. Black greatcoat, something that would make him sweat enourmously as soon as he got out into the sun, with all his medals pinned to his chest. Well, at least the most prolific of them. He also wore a silver frogged black tunic, black dress-breeches with a red edging. His jackboots had given way to more ordinary foot-wear. But his shoes were polished shining black and immaculate. His leather gloves were artic white and his black peaked cap was decorated with gilt braids and the golden aquila along with the red edging. 

 He turned round and saw McGranth. Grand Commander Eddie McGranth. His best man and one of his best friends. McGranth was dressed in his Tactical Dreadnought armour, though unarmed. The armour had been repaired and polished. Several honour parchments and seals were attached to his armour, not to mention marks of brilliance he had around his neck. 

 Next to McGranth was Commissar Katsuro Daichi. He was too dressed in commissarial dress uniform, just as Yarrick. His medals were just half a dozen and that was most surely all he owned. Yarrick liked the young man quite a lot. 

 On one of the benches out in the sun, Yarrick spotted old man Irwin. The old white-haired man was wearing a black dress-suit and was sweating profusely as a result. Yarrick silently reflected over how small and hunched Irwin seemed. He was ninety now, Yarrick marvelled. Ninety years old and still having energy enough to come to something like this. 

 Shame be if he hadn't, as Irwin had said himself. 

 And Skuli sat just behind him. 

 "Rolf," a soft voice said behind him, "what are you thinking about?" 

 Yarrick turned and looked at Fiona McAllen, soon to be Fiona Yarrick. She was just as beautiful as the first day he'd met her, more than a year ago. 

 "Not much," Rolf replied and held her lightly around the waist. "Just how perfect this day is..." 

 Fiona only smiled softly. They both knew that her white dress, although symbolizing purity, did cover a wonderful secret. Within a month, it would be impossible for Fiona to try to hide it any more. And only then would Yarrick tell his colleagues and friends about it. 

 She put her arms around Yarrick's neck and hugged him tightly. She wanted to kiss him, but today's first kiss would be symbolic for all people present. 

 The cardinal came out of the cathedral of County Invas and smiled at the couple to be united in holy matrimony. He was a thin man with a good-natured face. 

 "Shall we proceed?" he asked softly, and the commissar and the young woman nodded. 

 Neither Rolf Yarrick nor Fiona McAllen did listen too closely, but still they knew what to say. They'd known it for over five months now. 

 Commissar Daichi brought Yarrick the ring for Fiona's finger whilst McGranth brought Fiona the ring for Yarrick's finger. 

 The long awaited kiss came and went. 

 For the loving couple, Rolf and Fiona Yarrick from now, the rest of the day went quick and endlessly slow at the same time. For them, there was little else in the world this day than each other. But it would change, they both knew. 

 So better make the most out of the day. 

 Carpe diem, Yarrick thought silently. Well, I truly have, no? 

 "He hasn't got much time left, master! You must come!" 

 The words still stung to his mind. 

 Rolf Yarrick sighed heavily. He had everything now. A loving wife and two wonderful girls; three-year-old Eloni, after an aunt Fiona had, and one-year-old Viktoria, which Yarrick named after his old mentor Chomaki. 

 But now, another important part of his life was slipping away. 

 Yarrick looked away from the window. The weather outside was sunny and clear and not at all suitable for such a dreadful day. He slowly walked over to the bed in the centre of the room. Yarrick caught himself Skuli's attention and gestured to him to leave the room. 

 After that, he sat down on the bed and clasped Hendrik Irwin's gnarled hand. The small old man looked back at him and smiled weakly. Irwin was very old now; in his nineties. His hair was as thick as ever, but it was white, not grey any more. And it went without mentioning how thin Irwin had grown. 

 Physically, Irwin was dying. Yarrick knew that all too well. Irwin's body was ten, maybe twenty years older than it should be. Yarrick knew why. The same had happened to his grand-uncle. It was something you got the commissarial occupation, one could say. 

 But despite that his ailing body was going to kill him, Irwin still kept his spirits up it seemed. His mind was just as clear as ever. Perhaps clearer still. 

 Yarrick sighed again. 

 "Rolf, please," Irwin said and patted Yarrick's hand with his free one. "You must've known this? I am not like you. I age. I've grown old. It happens to everyone sooner or later." 

 "But not me..." Yarrick muttered darkly. He looked up into Irwin's warm brown eyes. "Do you regret anything in life, Hendrik?" 

 Irwin looked nonplussed for a while and then said, "Well, that would be signing on for staff service all those years ago, but then I wouldn't have you, right?" Yarrick nodded his assent. "Okay, so then I don't really have any regrets. My life has been damn good, you should know." 

 "I do," Yarrick whispered silently. "It's just... Damn..." He wiped away the tears that had gathered in his eyes, but there were new ones to take their places. Yarrick also had this thick clot in his throat. He hadn't felt like this since Uncle Caspar had died in his lap. Chomaki's death hadn't given that feeling, but Irwin's did. 

 However, in both the earlier cases, Yarrick had been on the field of battle, or at least had a fight near, so he could went his sorrow as anger and fury. But know, in the home of Hendrik Irwin, in times of peace, there was nothing like that to relieve him. 

 Yarrick bore the full brunt of sorrow for the first time in his life. 

 Irwin seemed to know what was on Yarrick's mind. 

 "Rolf, say it," he said weakly. "Say it, you will feel better, I promise." 

 Yarrick let go of Irwin's hand, leant towards the old man and hugged him as tightly as he dared. Irwin felt how the commissar general was shaking with tears now. 

 "Hendrik," Yarrick got out between the gulps of air he forced into his shaking lungs, "Hendrik, you've been like a father to me. The father I never truly had. I thank the God-Emperor for having the pleasure to have met you." 

 There was a brief pause as Yarrick gathered his breath. Irwin stroked him gently on his wiry back. 

 "The rest, Rolf." 

 "I love you, Hendrik," Yarrick snivelled forth. After having said that, it felt like a weight had gone from his heart. He unclasped Irwin from his grip and stood up. Irwin was smiling at him. Softly and weakly, though. 

 "I've been waiting for that, Rolf, know that. How I've been waiting. I've loved you like a son. The son I never had. Makes us even, eh?" 

 Yarrick was to reply, when he saw how Irwin slowly closed his eyes, a faint smile on his lips. A content smile. 

 A few seconds later, and the thin chest under the blankets stopped heaving. 

 Yarrick waited a few minutes and then leant forward and touched Irwin's wrinkled cheek with one hand. 

 "Of all the heroes I've known, Hendrik," Yarrick whispered, "you were the greatest. Your commitments weren't on the battlefield, because you were no warrior. You put your efforts where they mattered." 

 With that, Yarrick walked out of the bedroom. When he came out, he whispered to the doctor present what had happened. Then he turned to Skuli, his wife Fiona and his two children. Skuli had entertained them with trick and acrobatics. 

 They all noticed the grim set on Yarrick's face. No words were needed. Fiona got up and walked over to her husband. The two hugged each other tightly. 

 Skuli felt the tears roll down his cheeks as he held the two young girls to him. Nothing was ever going to the same again. 

 Not for Yarrick and certainly not for Skuli. 

 Two weeks later, Hendrik Irwin, Imperial Commissar and Loyal Servant in His Imperial Highness Holy Guard, was buried in the soil of the land where he was born: Kilarney Hive on the southern continent of Ichar. 

 Commissar General Rolf Yarrick attended, in full dress uniform, together with his wife. They hadn't been many, but all men and women had one thing in common: they were all in some way linked to the deceased and to the Imperial Commissariat. As a matter of fact there was no preacher to read out the proceedings from the Ecclesiarchal Creed. Instead, a commissar had been called in. 

 During the entire funeral service, Yarrick tried discreetly to locate Skuli in the crowd. He knew that Skuli had become of average human height. 

 The mutant had been nowhere to be seen. 

 And Rolf Yarrick would never hear from him again. 

 At the end of the service, when the coffin had been lowered into the ground and people were starting to walk away from the cementary, Yarrick darkly reflected that he'd soon enough would lose someone perhaps even nearer. 

 He knew he would outlive his wife. But it didn't make things better at all. 

 Things were going to very grim, he concluded. Very grim indeed, before they got better. 

 Commissar General Rolf Yarrick had no idea that this was a grave understatement on his behalf.


	6. Lone Wolf

Lone Wolf

_"I've suffered near-mortal wounds, I've lost my family, my friends, but nothing, I say NOTHING, has hurt as much as when James, my son, ordered me to shoot him..."_

**--Commissar General Rolf Yarrick**

The clash of steel against steel rang through the air. Thirteen-year-old James Yarrick watched in horror as his father, the famous Commissar-general Rolf Yarrick fought against the worst of Mankind's enemies: Lord Kharn, Prince of Blood and War. Rolf Yarrick, tall and wiry, imposing in his Imperial Commissar's uniform and with a strange blue-tinged hair, wielded his silvery blade with skill and determination against his opponent.

James had to conclude that he barely could look at the Dark Lord. He was large, impossibly large, clad from head to toe in dark red power armour with brass trims. In his right hand he held a black, twisted blade that reeked of noxious green fumes. James knew that it couldn't possibly be made by mortal hand.

"James!" Rolf Yarrick bellowed as he distanced himself enough from Kharn. "Go home! Find help! Now!" With that, Yarrick returned his fierce one-on-one fight with Kharn.

James nodded slightly and turned round and ran back home, to his mother, his sister and his three-year-old little-brother.

* * *

"You care far too much for them, Yarrick!" Kharn spat as he riposted one of Yarrick's attacks. "It only shows how weak you are!"

"WRONG!" Yarrick screamed. "My love, my concern for others is what has kept me, and the rest of humanity, alive! Your inability to see that is what makes you damned!"

Kharn roared and lashed out with his wicked deamon-blade again. It didn't carry the weight of his trusty old axe, but that was lost on Armageddon now. He would have Yarrick pay back every milligramme of pain he'd caused him, with interest.

Yarrick easily parried, never letting his emotions get the overhand. He forced down his hatred, knowing that the blade Kharn was wielding was looking for such emotions so that it could strike more effciently.

He whirled round, using his superior agility and speed to surprise Kharn as best he could, praying to the God-Emperor that James found help.

Kharn parried. It felt like hitting a brick wall. Yarrick felt pain throb in his arm as he backed off a few steps. Kharn was on him in an instant.

This was not going as planned.

For all the pain Rolf had felt in his life, this was nothing. He knew well enough that physical pain was but a splinter compared to the pain of lost loved ones. His mother, his father, Uncle Caspar, Commissar-general Chomaki, Commissar Irwin, his wives Fiona and Irina, his daughters and sons; their passings had pained him so much. In some wicked way he saw why Kharn called him weak. Kharn wasn't anchored by fear of losing his loved ones. He lived but for the thrill of battle.

But Rolf Yarrick never had. And he never would, if he'd have his say. Pain anchored him to his humanity, kept him sane, strange enough.

He was over two hundred years old now, and emotional pain was the only thing that reminded him of that he was human still.

Yarrick sourly reflected that Inquisitor Rovannion had been burned at the stake a few years earlier for writing a highly dubious book on the origins of the human race.

Yarrick had read it, as Rovannion had been haunting him his entire life. If one word in that book was actually true, Yarrick was prepared to believe it was that the human bloodlust was of orkoid origin. He'd never voice it to anyone, not even his current wife, Rebecca Silberstein, but there was no real denying it when faced with an opponent as grim as Lord Kharn.

Kharn charged at him, and Yarrick easily doged him, swinging in with his blade. The Yarrick sword sliced off a good chunk from Kharn's right shoulder guard.

Kharn roared and lashed out with his blade. Yarrick made an elegant backwards somersault and landed on his feet, striking a parrying pose just before the Dark Lord hit him like a sledgehammer.

Yarrick did in fact stagger backwards, but he didn't lose his footing. He altered his grip on his sword so that he held it like a dagger and made a quick swipe at Kharn's exposed left shoulder, making a clean cut flesh wound across Kharn's left bicep.

Kharn growled and made a swing that would take Yarrick's head off.

Yarrick slid down and rolled to the left, away from Kharn's reach.

It took him a while to understand he no longer held his blade in his right hand. In fact, his right hand was off at the wrist. Bright red blood squirted out of his stump.

With an angry cry, Commissar-general Rolf Yarrick slumped down on his knees.

Chuckling to himself, Kharn moved closer to his blood-sworn enemy.

"You had skill, Yarrick," he mused, with a content and utterly malicious smile behind his death's mask. "But not even half as much as you need to defeat me."

Trying to push back the tears and clutching his bloody stump, Rolf Yarrick knew the deamon was right.

* * *

James had heard the cry of pain and anger. He knew it hadn't been the deamon's voice. And he knew that if he didn't make it, there would be no father to save anymore.

Pushing his young body to the limit, James Yarrick ran the fastest he ever would do the last kilometre home.

* * *

"Any last words, Yarrick," Kharn said softly. "I owe you as much."

Yarrick glanced his blade just behind Kharn. An idea lit up. "Go to Helsreach, you frekk!" he spat and dove after the sword with his left hand.

Kharn spun round to slam his blade down in Yarrick's back.

Instead, he found himself hitting soft soil and got a wet feeling along his left arm.

Kharn slowly turned his head to see the Yarrickian sword sticking out of his shoulder. Holding it was a grim-looking Rolf Yarrick. The puny mortal had stabbed him through his left shoulder.

Yarrick wrenched the sword free, almost ripping Kharn's left arm off in the process. He stumbled backwards and slumped down on his knees again.

The Dark Lord howled in pain, wordless and inhuman. He raised his sword in sheer rage, to deal the pesky mortal the final blow.

Now or never!

A bright bolt of red-hot energy exploded the blade of Kharn's sword. Kharn turned his head and saw the last person he'd ever wanted to see.

"McKenzie!" he hissed.

"Stay right were you are, deamon!" McKenzie said as he aimed the plasma pistol at Kharn's face.

Behind his mask, Kharn's lips flickered to a smile and then he ducked into a Warp-portal that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. The thing closed before McKenzie could react.

"At least that confirms my theories on Kharn having sorcerers," McKenzie muttered sourly as he holstered the plasma gun. He walked over to Yarrick, who seemed very pale.

"Did James..." Yarrick whispered.

McKenzie shook his head. "No, I felt this myself. James and your wife will be coming along soon though, with an ambulance VTOL-jet. Just stay with me, Rolf."

Yarrick nodded slightly. He was far gone with pain and fatigue, so far gone he didn't feel that McKenzie applied a psychic torniquet to his bleeding stump. Before Rebecca, James and the medics had arrived though, Rolf Yarrick had passed out from pain and blood loss.

* * *

A week later, at the main hospital of Vindaree, Rolf Yarrick was awake for the first time since he'd passed out at his ownings. He was sitting upright in his hospital bunk, propped up with pillows and studied his newly implanted bionic right hand. It looked pretty much like an ordinary hand, just that it was made of metal and plastic and not of flesh and bone. The cyber-physicians had spoken of so-called skin-baths, to completely cover the fact that you were using a bionic. But such vanity was beyond Rolf Yarrick. He did not like the bionic, but he knew he needed one to continue in service. However, he'd never try to be so vain as to try to cover it up. There was a slight cowardice over such a thought. If he would need to cover it up, he'd do it wearing a pair of gloves.

Yarrick looked around. It had been a while since he'd been in a civilian hospital, now that he thought about it. He was, after all, a commissar general. A civilian, and a normal life, add to that, was forever beyond his reach. His lot in life was to hunt the tainted and perverse, to uproot evil wherever it might lurk. That was his simple duty. In black and white.

Though, of late, Yarrick had realised that there were things that mattered more than the duty.

Throughout his life, his family had always gotten in the way when his duty called him to his work. He bitterly remembered a time when he'd wished nothing but a wife and children to love, and who would love back.

What a fool he'd been!

They only got in the way, as said. They fretted to much over his safety and could never accept that his chosen path was that of a warrior. He couldn't perform his duties well enough if they couldn't leave him alone. Why wouldn't they understand that?

"Because they love you," a voice said softly. Yarrick looked up and saw McKenzie standing in the doorway, stripped of his armour. He was wearing the ceremonial robes of a Master Lexicanum and a worried look.

"You know what I think of you reading my mind, McKenzie," Yarrick growled silently.

McKenzie nodded tiredly. "I do, but I couldn't resist. You worry about their safety too, don't you, Rolf? That's why you fret over them. Why you can't lose yourself in battle like you could before. Am I not right?"

Yarrick nodded. He remembered the times during the Armageddon wars. He'd completely lost himself in battle. Everything had turned a white blur, where there was no time for thought, only action. But now... He sourly reflected over that Kharn could've been right after all. McKenzie must've sensed this too.

"Kharn's wrong, you know." McKenzie said and met Yarrick's stare without flinching. "He's the one who's weak, because he can't see the reason why he should avoid death. He has no fear of it. But you, Rolf, you've so much to lose you'll cling on to life forever, until you're done with this world. Kharn can't do that because he's been taught to know no fear. That's the curse of all Space Marines. In being taught to lose our fear for death, we, in a way, lose our individuality and humanity. Being human means not only to have a free choice of what to do with your life, but also to be afraid of that thing which we know we cannot escape, but still try to avoid: Death."

"You're saying I'm a better warrior than Kharn, eh?" Yarrick said and raised his bionic hand. "I doubt that, McKenzie."

"I'm not saying that," McKenzie said and looked softly at Yarrick. "I'm saying you can become a better warrior than him in time, as he has a roof for his ability. A roof set by Death and the fear of the same. He can't cross it, as his fear is non-existant. He has nothing to cling on to, Rolf. He'll let go of life much easier as he doesn't fear death. But not you. You have an iron will."

"Quite a solilouqy..." Yarrick muttered.

"Perhaps," McKenzie said and lowered his head. "Love is the thing that makes us human, Rolf. Without it, we would be nothing. Take me for my word when I say I haven't encountered love in the same way we humans define it in any race I've met. The Eldar, who claim to be so superior of us, have little, if no grasp of the idea at all. And you know, Rolf, that it is impossible to build a society on fear and hatred. That is why the Imperium will always triumph over the other forces out there. The Emperor loves his subjects, you know that. But the Chaos gods do not love their subjects. They only see them as means to an end.

"Remember that, Rolf. Your family loves you; your colleagues love you; Charleston, McGranth and I, we all love you like a brother. And you love us back. You look after your friends and family. You make sure that they come out alive and healthy through everything they go through. You're the most honourable man I've ever met, know that. Your ideas of life are firm and unshakable. Just as your faith. Your faith and love for the God-Emperor of Mankind.

"So, believe me when I say that Kharn hates your guts for nothing else than that you have everything and he essentially has nothing, and he knows it. He is but a slave to darkness."

Yarrick nodded thoughtfully. "True, when you put it that way. You are of course right about love. Most commissars know that they will have a lifetime of hatred aimed at them, but that most soldiers will appreciate that they've been lectured by a political officer, at least once in their lives. But, know this McKenzie, being a commissar is actually one hell of a lonely job."

"No doubt..." McKenzie's voice trailed off. "Look, Rolf, there's a reason I came here. I came directly after I found out from the Master Apothecarion of my Legio."

"What are you talking about?"

"I took a blood sample of your blood after you'd lost your hand and the testing we took on that DNA confirms my worst fears..."

"Go to, McKenzie. I want to know!"

McKenzie looked back at Yarrick, his eyes glittering slightly from restrained tears. "That part of your DNA that prevented your aging has been wiped out. I don't know exactly how, but I guess it had to do with the deamonblade Kharn was wielding. There's no trace of it anywhere. I asked the physicians here to perform a search for the DNA-code carrying the... uh... mutation of yours; they found nothing. They took tissue samples, muscle samples; nothing. You're going to age. You're going to become the age you truly are. This will take time, of course. You'll age the way normal men do. Starting from, where? Around about your early thirties. You have another fifty or sixty years to live, maximum. But I wouldn't give you more than forty."

Yarrick looked down and nodded. He looked as if he restrained a very strong emotion.

"I'm sorry, Rolf," McKenzie said and left.

As the lanky Marine had left, Yarrick began to sob, silently, unable to hold back the sorrow he felt inside.

"Forty years..." he mumbled silently. "That's not even nearly enough the time I need..."

* * *

"Now, take it easy, Rolf," Rebecca Yarrick scolded her husband as he stumbled drunkenly out to the parking lot. "The automobile is that way, honey!" she said and pointed off in the direction of the parked vehicle.

"I see it," Yarrick slurred. "Now the tricky part, to get there." He started to shamble off towards it, having obvious problems not veering off to the sides. Rebecca merely sighed and shook her head. Rolf had been a lot like this since he'd lost his right hand two years ago. He'd never truly acclimatized himself to his bionic hand, and he got drunk a lot easier these days. She couldn't fathom why.

Yarrick leant heavily on the bonnet of the car as he came up to it, turned his head and grinned sheepishly towards Rebecca. She was a sight, his wife. Tall and well-muscled for a woman, with black hair and pale skin, she was a model Armageddonian. Rebecca Silberstein, now Yarrick. He'd found her in a wharf in Acheron Hive. Love had struck him the same way she'd struck bolts into the hulls of battleships.

Rebecca unlocked the car and got in, as did Yarrick, after some fumbling with the lock. It was obvious that Rebecca was to drive. She hadn't drunk anything else than water the whole evening.

"Don't forget the seatbelt, dear," she said softly and helped Rolf out. Yarrick realised something.

"It has rained," he slurred.

Rebecca looked up and out. "Indeed it has. And this chilly air is going to make the roads frekking slippery. I'll have to be careful then, won't I?"

Yarrick nodded.

Rebecca started the engine and the car rolled out of the parking lot. The last thing seen of the black car was the yellow positioning lamps situated at the back of it, as it sped away into the dark, moonless night.

* * *

They'd been driving for some time when Rolf fell asleep. Due to the drink, he snored slightly. Rebecca glanced at him and smiled. As her eyes came back to the road, they widened in surprise. In the middle of the road, cast in stark light by the headlamps, something the size and shape of a bethas bull was standing, oblivious of the coming car.

Rebecca punched the brakes to the floor in panic, only succeeding in locking them. The car slammed into over a tonne of flesh and bone with a speed of nearly 70 kilometres per hour.

The car continued to roll. It went off the road and came to a stop far out on a field. The engine died with a feeble gurgle.

Then there was a deathly silence.

* * *

Rolf Yarrick awoke to the sound of a strange buzzing noise. He slowly opened his eyes and looked out of the front window, or what was left of it. He gasped slightly as he saw the mangled heap of a bethas on the bonnet. He became aware of voices, human voices, around him, talking in an urgent way. He looked to his left. One of the men on the outside noticed him and walked over to him.

"Don't move, sir," the man said. "Your legs are stuck and we're cutting you lose."

Well, Yarrick thought, that explained the buzzing noise. "I see. What about Rebecca, what about my wife? Is she okay?"

The man didn't answer. He just looked past Yarrick, at something behind his right shoulder. There was an incredible sadness in his eye.

Yarrick slowly turned his head round to look at the driver's seat on the right. He prayed and hoped to the God-Emperor of Mankind that things weren't as he feared.

Rebecca was still sitting in the driver's seat, but she was no longer alive. She was impaled on the long antlers of the bethas. Her face was a mask of shock and surprise. Yarrick tried to hold back the tears. He'd been through this before, hadn't he? Losing his wife, his loved ones. He could take it, couldn't he?

No. Every time, it hurt just as much.

Commissar General Rolf Yarrick wept like a child, pinned in place by the deformed metal of the car.

* * *

It was nearly twenty years since the death of his wife. The memory of her still sent needles through his heart. Rolf Yarrick knew he would never truly get over her. He never did. Each new wife he had fallen in love with had been different from the last. That was what made it bearable. But now he had made his mind up. No more pain. His place was in battle. Nowhere else.

He had had three children with Rebecca. The oldest, Janet, was twenty-five when her mother died. She'd already moved out and was living her own life. She'd taken the loss much better than Yarrick. He wasn't surprised really. Women seemed to be able to cope with loss much better than men. Why, he couldn't fathom.

The youngest, Frederick, had been a mere five years old. Yarrick had, rather callously, sent him to the Schola Progenum to be trained as a commissar. He knew he couldn't take care of the boy himself. Yet, he had visited his son as often as he could.

The oldest son, James, had been fifteen at the death of his mother. Yarrick had taken care of him for a few years. When James had turned eighteen, he had asked his father if he could become a soldier in the Imperial Guard. Yarrick couldn't say no to his favourite child. James had signed up and been singled out as officer material. Now, at the age of 34, he was a captain in the Callidussian 27th. Although constantly worried over his safety, Yarrick was proud of his son's achievements.

* * *

"Father, what are you thinking about?" James Yarrick asked as he walked up to his father and military superior, Commissar General Rolf Yarrick. The old warrior turned to look at his son and smiled warmly. They were standing in the massive view port bay of the Cardinal Boras, in orbit around Sayna. James didn't know his father had just heard wonderful news from James' wife, Cecil.

"That this is a stupid place for you to be, after all," Yarrick replied. James laughed.

"You always worry about me, father. But here I am, whole as whole, never better and all that. I've been trained to avoid bullets after all."

"Still," Rolf Yarrick sighed. "It's only natural for a parent to worry. You're my future, James. The family's future. And you wouldn't want to widow that nice wife of yours, no?"

James nodded. "I better get to my troops," he said suddenly and made off before Yarrick could protest.

"Emperor protect you, son," Yarrick said quietly. It would have to wait for later, then.

* * *

Sayna, civilised industrial world in the central south of the Imperium. Producer of laser glass for lasguns and lascannons and well as laser sights. A world under Chaos incursion. The cultists, proclaiming no certain allegiance to any particular god, were not many and not as well organised as the Kinthas or Children of the Light Fantastic, but they still proved a threat to Imperial production. So the High Lords had dispatched the 25th and 27th Callidussian with support from the 14th Armageddon Steel Legion to quell the rebellion. Commander in chief was the legendary Liberator of Armageddon, the Wolf of Callidus; Commissar Rolf Yarrick.

Personally, Yarrick thought it was overkill to send three fully armed Imperial Guard regiments to quell a minor rebellion like this. It did not take many weeks before they had the cultists surrounded in the capital of Sayna. Yarrick moved his forces in for the final blow, ready to exterminate the enemy. He was just to give the order to take no prisoners when word reached him that the planetary governor was still alive and held captive by the cultists. The Administratum's orders were clear: if the governor was still loyal, he was to be taken back alive. Yarrick had sighed at it all. That meant a gruelling city fight.

The orders were changed. They were going in low and slow.

* * *

Jumping into cover, just being missed by two fierce bolts of las, Yarrick cursed the Administratum. If he could have chosen, they would have bombed the city flat with artillery and have done with. He caught himself and banged his forehead with the heel of his palm. There he went again, letting his emotions run ahead of him. There were still loyal civilians in the city. Maybe the city fight could not have been avoided? The difference between this and the original plan was only that this way was taking much more time into question as they had to search each and every building.

The cultists were not stupid. The planetary governor had been moved from his villa into the city itself. Where, only the Emperor knew. And it was turning out to be quite tricky in finding him again. Yarrick cursed again.

The las from his enemies spat against the rockcrete of his cover a few more times. He counted the shots. There! Empty!

Yarrick jumped up, armed with a lasgun from a fallen soldier and fired off a salvo on full auto at his opponents. As he did so, he ran forward, keeping their heads down long enough for him to find new cover further forward.

As they had reloaded, they fired again. Again, Yarrick counted shots. When they ran dry this time, however, he pulled out a frag grenade and tossed into their cover. The terrified shriek just before the blast told him all he needed to know and Yarrick went for other prey.

Further down the street, he joined up with a squad of Armageddon Steel Legionnaires. They were busy clearing out what looked like a bunker of sorts. Yarrick was amazed at their efficiency. Using their special "Stielgranaten", which due to their design could be thrown further, they forced the cultists down into the bunker. After that, they sent forth two flame thrower armed troopers who flushed the bunker with fire. After that, they picked out two more Stielgranaten, threw them into the bunker and, not waiting for the blasts, moved on. What were they doing? They were here to rescue someone!

He walked up to the squad sergeant.

"Sergeant, why the rush?" Yarrick asked.

The sergeant turned and saluted. "Sir! That is how we work in the Steel Legion. Work fast, work hard!"

"I see, but we are here to rescue a planetary governor. Not maim him."

The sergeant first locked shocked and them looked away, ashamed over having forgotten such elementary orders in the heat of battle. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Continue, but I want you to check places like that. Now, it's too late for this bunker, but keep it in mind. I've heard Armageddon Commissars aren't as forgiving as I am for disobedience."

The sergeant clicked his heels together in Armageddon salute, a salute inherited from Charvia, and said he would send three troopers to check.

With that, Yarrick moved on down the street.

Twenty minutes later, he found hismelf in a particularly vicious fight for the main cathedral in the city. The fight involved an entire company of the Callidussian 27th, Yarrick noticed. It took him a while to realise it was James Yarrick's company.

Yarrick made a desperate attempt to try and locate his son. He cut through the Chaos cultists that attacked him with ease, but his spirit was not in it. His mind was elsewhere. Something within him told him he had to find James, it was very important that he found James.

Yarrick finally located one of the company's lieutenants and ran towards him.

"Sir!" the lieutenant saluted as Yarrick approached him. "I'm glad you made it here. I think we've found the cultist head quarters."

"Is that so?" Yarrick mused. "Where's your captain? Where's James Yarrick?"

The lieutenant looked a bit apprehensive before he replied. He new the family connection between the two Yarricks. Then he slowly raised his arm and pointed towards the cathedral. "In there sir. The cultists captured him a few blocks down as he lead a spearhead when we tried to break them. We assaulted them because we saw the cultists were moving the Planetary Governor. Captain Yarrick recognised him from briefing picts."

Rolf Yarrick couldn't believe his ears. Not now. Not his beloved son.

Yarrick called a comms operator up to him and sent a message down the line. He wanted a squad of Armageddon Storm Troopers, fully armed, to get down to the main cathedral, this instant!

It took the Storm Troopers ten minutes to get to the main cathedral. Yarrick outlined the situation, not mentioning that his son was captive, but that the planetary governor of Sayna was held inside the cathedral. Orders where simple: They were to gain access to the cathedral and flush out the cultists. No prisoners where to be taken.

A minor barrage was laid down by elements from the 25th Callidussian tank regiment and several smoke greandes fired as cover as Commissar Yarrick advanced into the cathedral with the Storm Troopers.

In the ensuing confusion in the enemy lines, they easily outmanouvered and destroyed any resistance. The Storm Troopers used their hellguns with great precision and Yarrick eschewed the lasgun over Chomaki's bolt pistol. He still carried it, after all these years. It served as a reminder of what he'd gone through to become who he was. It kept him humble.

But nothing of that was in Yarrick's mind at the moment. His thoughts were focused on one thing alone: his son.

A carefully placed krak grenade blew the cathedral gate off its hinges and the Storm Troopers rushed into the holy place. Yarrick got an uncanny pang of recognition when he saw the defaced Imperial iconography. It had been in a similar place that Chomaki had died. Yarrick shook the foreboding feeling off and concentrated on fighting.

His sword slashed through the dark robes of the cultists easily and as he advanced, he saw his son up at the altar. He was bound by hands and feet and was lying on the floor, next to the planetary governor, who had been treated in a similar manner.

Above them stood the last thing Yarrick had wanted to see: the blood red armoured monstrosity that is a Berzerker. It was armed with a chain axe and a bolt pistol. Yarrick knew it was a lesser champion but it still sent cold dread down his spine and hot rage to his soul to know that Kharn was in some way involved with this.

"Finally," the Berzerker called, "the Wolf dignifies us with an entrance! And he brings a party! Rejoice in the bloodshed that is to take place. Rejoice I say!"

With that, more than thirty cultists armed with chain weaponry and nothing else exploded from behind the altar. The Berzerker's personal body guard, Yarrick guessed. As he trained his bolt pistol on the advancing cultists, he heard the Storm Trooper sergeant, a man named Hubert Krebs, shout the order "Feuer frei!", "Fire freely" in High Armageddonian. A virtual wall of hellgun las slammed into the advancing cultists, now clearly identifiable as Khornate. The lack of iconography earlier had offset Yarrick to believe they were facing undivided cultists, but this obvious display of allegiance showed that the Cult Leader, the Berzerker Champion, was choicy in his selection of personal bodyguard. And understandably so.

Yarrick's sights were still locked on the altar and the blood red giant. As his bolt pistol clicked dry, he quickly holstered it and threw himself into close combat. The cultists, although armed with chain weaponry, stood no chance against Yarrick's burning fury and his legendary sword. He slowly cut himself a bloody swathe through the cultists and finally faced the Berzerker.

The Berzerker smirked and put a shot right through the head of the planetary governor, smearing the poor man's brain over the sacred altar.

"One more step, Yarrick, one more movement, and your son gets it next," it taunted. Yarrick froze. How could the monster know? How?

"It's all too obvious you are father and son," the Berzerker said, as if reading Yarrick's thoughts. The cacophony of the surrounding battle seemed to die away. Yarrick dared a fast glance. It looked as if the grey uniformed Armageddonians where getting the upper hand. Was this a deseprate last measure on behalf of the Chaos? Testing his true mettle?

Yarrick heard a slight scrape behind himself and spun round automatically, beheading the cultist that had creeped up on him with a swift stroke. The whirring chainsword hit the ground with a clang. As Yarrick turned back to the Berzerker; he knew what was going to happen.

"Told you not to move," the Berzerker said and sent a bullet through James Yarrick's stomach.

Rolf Yarrick did not do anything, could not do anything, but watch. His body froze in fear for the second time in his life. For the first time since he had faced Lord Kevlinn himself. This could not be! Not James! How could he tell Cecil Yarrick this? In her delicate state? That he'd watched her husband and his son bleed to death, unable to do anything?

The Berzerker started to walk up to the stupefied Rolf Yarrick, revving up his chain axe to take the head of the Imperial Hero and offer his blood to the Throne of Skulls.

The Chaos Marine never got that far. A bolt pistol shot exploded in his chest piece and sent him reeling backwards. At first, the traitor thought it was Yarrick that had fired, but the commissar still stood frozen in shock. But behind him, a man in dark grey uniform and black carapace armour ran up. Sergeant Hubert Krebs fired another shot at the monster in front of him, making another dent into the chest piece and sending the monster reeling again. He knew that the bolts were a far cry from penetrating the power armour of a Chaos minion, but he knew something that could.

As the Berzerker righted himself, he felt the Storm Trooper sergeant land on him and mash something into one of the holes in his chest armour. The pathetic fool! The Berzerker rammed his left gauntlet through the stomach of the puny human and lifted him off and away from himself. Only then did he see the strap and safety from the Stielgranate's shaft that was poking out from his chest wrapped around the sergeant's wrist. The fuse had been activated as he'd pulled the man off him.

Sergeant Krebs looked at the red monstrosity with fading eyes.

"Gott-Kaiser mit uns," he whispered, reciting the motto of the Armageddon Steel Legions.

The Berzerker exploded in a cloud of bone and blood.

* * *

The explosion seemed to be what brought Yarrick back to reality. The Chaos cultists had been defeated, their leader dead and yet still he felt no joy, only an infinite sadness.

Yarrick walked over to his dying son and knelt by him, cradling his head in his lap.

"It's going to be alright, son," Yarrick said soothingly. He knew he was lying, but still... it was his son.

James coughed bloody flegm and looked up at his father. "You're an awful liar, father. There's no chance I can survive this. It hurts too much. End me. Please."

Yarrick looked shocked at his son. What he asked for was out of the question.

"I can't, James. How can I look your widow in the eyes then? I can I hold your child in my arms when I know what I've done?"

"Cecil's...?"

"Yes. I meant to tell you earlier, but the time never presented itself. I'm so sorry, James. I thought it could wait until the victory celebrations, to make the times even merrier for you. And now it becomes this horrible tragedy instead."

"Father, I'm happy. So very happy. So please, grant me my final wish. End me. Let me die thinking of Cecil and our child."

Yarrick hestitated. His own bolt pistol was spent. He could not, would not reload it for this alone. As if sensing his father's predicament, James spoke again.

"Use my laspistol, father. It's still in its holster. They never even removed it. Please. Dad?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Yarrick pulled out the sleek pistol from its holster. After some thought, he switched off the safety and aimed it at James' head.

"Rest easy, my son," Yarrick said softly, his voice not quite managing without breaking.

With that, Rolf Yarrick pulled the trigger. James' body slumped in his lap.

Yarrick dropped the laspistol onto the floor and hugged his dead son tightly. Raising his head up, he howled out a wordless scream of pain and anguish, making it echo in the vast space of the Imperial Cathedral of Sayna Capital.

* * *

Staring out the vast vistas of the Imperial Commissariat head quarters on Secondus, Yarrick tried to come to terms with what he was about to do. His mind still could not quite accept it. He tried to rationalise his acting. What he was about to do was for the better of the Imperium. Not only his own state of mind.

Lord Commissar Buric had asked him to wait outside his office a few minutes so he could sort a few things out. Buric was a powerful man, Yarrick concluded. So powerful he could make a Living Legend wait for him to finish some paper work. The thought amused him. It was not often Rolf Yarrick was asked to wait. Even Planetary Governors made time to see him immediately.

It was humbling, and good, to be treated like just another commissar general, or even commissar for that matter, when he went to see one of the most powerful men in the Imperium.

The door to Buric's office opened and the lord commissar motioned Yarrick inside. Theodore Buric was a tall man, around 1m90, and broad-shouldered. His physique spoke of a man used to the hardships of a battle field though, like most staff serving commissars, he had rounded out lately. Yarrick felt a pang of sadness swish through his mind as he thought of Hendrik Irwin. He had been his mentor just as much as Chomaki had been.

"Please, Yarrick," Buric said and motioned to a generously upholstered chair. "Make yourself comfortable."

"No, thank you, lord," Yarrick replied rather coolly. "I would rather stand. I shan't be long." His High Gothic was much better now.

Buric gave him an odd look and then shrugged. As he sat down, he asked, "And what is on your mind, then?"

Yarrick decided to take the bethas by the horns. "I am going to resign, lord."

Buric gave an involuntary cough. "You're not serious!"

"With all due respect, lord commissar, I am no longer fit to carry out the duties of a commissar and a general," Yarrick continued, just as coolly.

"'No longer fit...' What about the Sayna liberation last month? That was carried out with a text book precision, Yarrick."

"It is because of Sayna I want to retire, lord. On the planet, during that mission, something terrible happened."

"Yarrick, if this is about your son, I am deeply sorry. But it's still no reason to resign. You have lost family members before, haven't you?"

"I have, lord. Though not in this manner."

"What do you mean?"

"James Yarrick, my son..." Yarrick felt a clot for in his throat and he swallowed hard to make it go away. "I shot him, lord. He was mortally wounded and asked me to shoot him. And I did."

"A mercy killing, Yarrick. If he was suffering, it was the least you could do for him."

"I know... even so!" Yarrick's voice was barely a whisper now. He bit his lip as the emotions came back. Emotions he had fought hard to supress the last month. He knew he had to grieve, but this wasn't the place nor the time.

"Take a month or two off then, Yarrick. Greieve your loss properly. The Imperium needs you. You're something people look up to, a genuine hero figure. The Imperium haven't got many of those currently."

Yarick gave a sardonic smile. Some hero he was.

"For the God-Emperor's sake," Buric continued, "I read about your successes in the Schola! You were a hero already then. You were a hero by the age of thirty! Long before my grand-father was born!"

"Exactly, Lord Commissar Buric; I am a walking piece of history. That's how you all view me. You don't understand, you can never understand, what it feels like outliving your own grand-children. After a while, it numbs your senses. It makes you less human. But then again, I'm not really human to begin with."

Buric looked startled. "What do you mean?"

Yarrick ignored the question. He took off his cap and placed it on the lord commissar's desk. It was the symbolic way a commissar resigned himself of his duties. The cap badge was also a badge of office.

"I am unfit as a commissar as I have started to put my own interests, such as family, ahead of the better of the Imperium, my lord."

Buric gaped for a moment and finally found words. "'Betterment of the Imperium'? You resigning is not for the better of the Imperium, Yarrick. This is ridiculous! Now put your cap back on!"

Yarrick simply turned on his heel and walked out.

"Yarrick! Come back here!" Buric shouted after him, though he knew it was no use. It would seem the old man had made up his mind.

* * *

As Yarrick walked down the corridor, he passed a young man, also a commissar. He was tall and handsome, with a tint of blue in his cropped hair.

"Father?" Frederick Yarrick asked as Rolf Yarrick walked past him. "What are you doing here?" Then he noticed the conspicious lack of a cap. He knew the ritual too.

Yarrick turned and faced his youngest. "Fred. Just the man I wanted to see." There was a tad sarcasm in the voice, but Frederick ignored it.

"Why have you resigned? Is it because of James?"

"More than so. Fred, I'm going to ask you of a favour. Look after Cecil and her child... when it comes."

"I'm a commissar, father. I can't just leave this place. I have duties."

"Tell Buric I told you to do so. He still respects me, otherwise he wouldn't have let me out of his office without the cap."

With that, Rolf Yarrick left his son alone with his thoughts and questions.

He also left the Imperial annals for several years, disappearing from view. No one knew where he went.

* * *

It was fall here. The days had grown shorter and the golden yellow ears of wheat beckoned to be harvested. As dusk settled across County Invas of Callidus, Rolf Yarrick reflected over how strange his homeland soil felt; like he did not belong here after all. He could not place why this was. He had travelled the Imperium incognito for the last five years, although it had not been easy. From what he had heard, the Inquisition had been quite busy after his sudden resignation. During these five years, Yarrick had tried to seek some sort of enlightenment as to what and who he really was. So far, he had turned up empty handed.

And now he had returned to Callidus, the planet that had given birth to him. He was practically back at the very same place where his long journey once had begun.

He had of course been back here before. He had even had a tomb built on the very spot of the original Yarrick ownings. There, he had moved Uncle Caspar's body, as well as his entire family. There, he had buried three wives and seven children. He hoped he would be the next one to be laid to rest in there because every time he buried someone close to him, Yarrick felt a part of himself go cold and die.

Yarrick stood in front of the fairly large building. It was created in an austere, sober manner, its architecture underpinning the building's purpose as a final resting place. Yarrick had commissioned the Callidussian architect Yesoch himself for this purpose. The man was long dead, his legacy and profession carried on by his daughters and grand-children, but his original work lived on in buildings like these.

Yarrick opened the door and walked inside, closing it behind himself and walking down the aisle towards the statue of Hrodwulf Le'man. The granite statue was slightly larger than life, its hands clasped in front of the body, resting atop the hilt of the Yarrick sword. Rolf Yarrick had left it there five years ago. He had had the statue erected on McKenzie's advice, in this very stance.

Yarrick stopped in front of the statue and looked at the sword. He had wielded it for so long, it had almost hurt a bit to leave it behind. Part of him longed to hold it again, but another part asked why he should? He was no longer a commissar. He had willingly retired.

"You can take the commissar out of duty, but you can't take the duty out of a commissar," a voice said from the shadows. Yarrick turned around and looked at a large figure sitting on one of the pews. His eyes needed a few seconds to accustom themselves to the gloom, but he soon recognised McKenzie's outline. He wasn't wearing his armour: he was wearing long, blood red robes and a black cloak.

"What brings you here, McKenzie?" Yarrick asked softly. Life and this man in particular held no more surprises to him.

"I was just about to ask the same," McKenzie said and stood up. "You caused quite a ruckus a few years back. You could've harmed the Imperium seriously with that act. Luckily, the Commissariat are very good at propaganda and managed to cover your arse. Did you know the Inquisition inquired the entire Commissariat command on Secondus after your departure?"

"I could've guessed as much," Yarrick replied. McKenzie raised an eyebrow quizzically as he heard this reply.

"I have had enough, McKenzie," Yarrick said after a moment of silence. "I came here to remind myself of why I resigned. That's the most straight answer I can give. Instead, I find myself strangely tempted to pick up the sword again, although I put it to rest here for a reason."

"Do you know why you feel tempted?" McKenzie asked. Yarrick shook his head slowly.

Yarrick walked over to a tomb. "This is where my dear, lovely Fiona rests. A warm, compassionate woman. A perfect mother. Always smiling. She smiled even as she died holding my hand. In the end she could barely remember her own name, but she remembered my face. And she smiled every time she saw me."

Yarrick walked over to another tomb. "Here lies Irina, my Ice Princess of Moskva. Just like her homeworld, she had a cold, harsh outside, but a warmer inside. And just like ice melts in spring, she withered away from me in cancer. I could do nothing but watch."

He walked over to a third tomb, that looked fairly new. "And here rests Rebecca, the Armageddonian valkyrie. She had a temper as hot as a blow torch but with a playful side to it. Very independent and strong willed. She was taken in an accident not far away from here."

Yarrick looked up at McKenzie. "My wives are the reason I resigned, McKenzie. I don't want my family to suffer because of my profession."

"Your family, or yourself?" McKenzie replied with an uncharacteristic harshness. Yarrick looked stumped.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean," McKenzie said and folded his arms across his chest. "What I mean is that this behaviour does not befit an Imperial Hero. This is not the Rolf Yarrick I knew. This despicable thing that stands before me cannot possibly be the Liberator of Armageddon, the razor-sharp war-artisan that earned himself the monicker the Wolf of Callidus."

A nerve twitched in Yarrick's left eye corner. "Are you saying I'm a heretic, McKenzie?"

"No," McKenzie replied, "but I mean to say that this wallowing in self-pity has gone far enough. Maybe I should have refrained from telling you what would happen to you when you lost your right hand? It would seem you've forgotten the blood oath you took as the scar of it was no longer part of your body."

Yarrick looked down at the mechanical implant that now served as his right hand. He didn't even consider it anymore. It was a part of him.

Yet McKenzie was right. The scar he had worn since his very first encounter with Lord Kevlinn was gone. With it no longer around to remind him of why he did not give up all those years ago, he had succumbed to the temptation of self-pity and self-reproach. It was as if a veil had been raised from his eyes. Yarrick realised he had been incredibly selfish and arrogant these last years. A behaviour that did not befit an Imperial Commissar and Hero. Behaviour that in itself should be alien to him. How could it have gone so far?

McKenzie seemed to realise what was taking place inside Yarrick's head. "I think it was the fight with Kharn, when you lost your hand, that started it," he said. Yarrick looked up sharp, pure curiosity in his eyes, McKenzie was relieved to see.

"I believe that in that battle, you had to draw the conclusion that you were a far cry from being the Dark Lord's match. If I don't misremember, that was what your original blood oath had been about? But when you realised, perhaps subconsciously, that you didn't live up to that demand, you started to hate yourself."

Yarrick nodded. "Yes, it makes sense. I also remember feeling I had lost my original edge. I couldn't-"

"'loose myself in battle like I used to.' That's more or less exactly your words from back then, in that hospital in Vindaree. I remember. And I said that your love for your family could make you stronger than the Dark Lord, because he was incapable of the most human emotion of all. So what I want to know, is where do you think you went wrong?"

Yarrick scratched his bearded chin as he thought about that. He had not shaved in a goodly while. He could not be bothered these days. Maybe that was the problem? That he had not bothered to find a deeper meaning and maybe even an answer in McKenzie's statement? He had just continued to worry over his family. They had become a burden to him in battle and he had started to loathe them at the same time that he loved them and Yarrick had started to hate himself for these feelings. McKenzie had meant him to use his love for his family as an asset in his fighting. The Dark Lord did not fear death, because he had nothing to lose. So what did Yarrick have that Kharn did not?

The realisation struck him like a slegdehammer.

"I do not fear death, for I have something to protect. Something that means more to me than life itself."

"You finally figured it out," McKenzie said with a warm smile. "And although you may die physically-"

"My memory will live on in my loved ones."

"Indeed," McKenzie said and nodded as Yarrick looked at him, astonished at this new found look on life. "Your memory, or rather, the memory of your actions became firmly rooted in the entire Imperial conscious when you earned yourself the title Liberator of Armageddon. If the Dark Lord dies, so does his reign of terror, but if you die, you will live forever in the minds of Imperial citizens. Now do you realise what you have that he doesn't?"

Yarrick nodded slowly. "Yes. And my fault was to ignore the obvious." With that, Yarrick turned around and pulled out the Yarrick sword from the clasp of his ancenstor Hrodwulf Le'man. It felt as if the sword had never left his hand. With a swift movement, Yarrick had sheathed it. He had carried the empty sheath with himself as a reminder of what he no longer was, but that time was past now.

He walked towards the door of the Yarrick family tomb.

"Where are you going, Rolf?" McKenzie called after him.

"I have no more duties as a commissar," Yarrick replied. "But I do have duties as a father... and a grand-father. I have no intention of seeking out the Dark Lord, but if he wishes another go at me, I won't be found wanting. Let him come. This time I'll be ready for him."

As Yarrick left and closed the door after himself, McKenzie sighed in the gathering darkness.

"That was too close..." he mumbled silently. "May the Emperor protect you, Rolf."

* * *

Yarrick had made his way towards Frederick's house the last few days. McKenzie's words were still crisp in his ears. He would carry them with himself and teach them to his family as well, if they wanted to listen.

As Yarrick turned and started to walk up the drive way to the house, he saw that the front door was open.

"What in the name of the Throne?" Yarrick muttered to himself. He started to spped up his stride, sensing something was awry. As a shot rang through the air, followed by a scream and a crash, Yarrick broke into a sprint.

Not now! Not here! Not again!


	7. Hero's Requiem

Hero's Requiem

* * *

_"People say, I must've meant much to my grand-father, very much indeed. I meant so much to him, that he gave his life_

_for me. So people say, at least. Oh, dear God-Emperor, I wish it was true..."_

**--Commissar Sebastian Yarrick.**

* * *

Rolf Yarrick burst through the door of his son Frederick's home and into the first room. There he also saw the origins

of the gunshot and where it had gone. On the ground, just a few metres from the door, he saw Frederick curled up

against the wall. The large red stain on his shirt front was all too telling for Rolf. Frederick seemed to notice who was

there and looked up at his father. There was no sadness in the young commissar's eyes, just an endless fury and Rolf

understood who must be responsible.

"They're in the next room, father. They've got Cecil. You have to stop them," Frederick gasped forth. Yarrick knelt

down next to his son and took a closer look at the wound.

"I can't leave you like this," Yarrick said and made to apply pressure to the wound. It was bad but there was still a

chance.

Frederick's hand stopped him and put a laspistol in it instead. The clip was almost spent.

"End me, father, like you ended James. Don't give these Chaos scum the satisfaction of having killed an Imperial

Commissar. Please, father."

Rolf reluctantly gripped the laspistol handle. It was James' death all over again, but with one important difference:

This time, he was prepared for it, emotionally. Rolf Yarrick was prepared for the feelings that would come afterwards.

He had learned his lesson. Yet still it bore against some fundamental part of him to do this. If he did, he would

effectively kill another part of his soul, he knew it.

Frederick coughed bloody phlegm, pulling Yarrick back to reality. That had set Yarrick's mind. He aimed the pistol at

Frederick's head. One shot was left in the clip. More than enough.

"Rest easy, my son," Yarrick prayed and pulled the trigger.

Frederick Yarrick, Imperial Commissar, slumped to the side, dead.

Rolf Yarrick rose slowly after putting down the laspistol next to his dead son. He turned and walked into the next

room, feeling strangely empty.

The emptiness he felt after killing his own son was nothing compared to the rush of red hot rage that went through his

body as he saw what was going on the living room.

The cultists, six of them, where clearly all of them Slaaneshii worshippers. Dressed in garish colours, none of the

colours going well with another and some blatantly refusing to speak to each other, with long, draping straps of studded

black leather dangling from various parts of the clothing and their bodies, not to mention the innumerable piercings and

tattoos. But what sent Yarrick's blood racing was what they were doing to Cecil. He knew that Slaanesh was the Dark

God of forbidden passions, yet he had never imagined this was part of their heathen doctrine. As Yarrick stood there,

frozen on the spot with rage, one of the cultists noticed the tall, grey-bearded stranger, but did not seem to recognise

who he was. Instead of charging and attempting to kill the stranger the Slaaneshii walked up to him.

"Come traveller, why don't you join us in our merry making?" the cultist asked with a wry smile.

Yarrick closed his eyes and inclined his head forward just a little. The smile on the face of the cultist widened in

approval and then vanished from his face like a drop of water from a hot iron rod when he saw the sword on the

stranger's back, but it was too late.

Yarrick threw open his eyes and fixed the Slaaneshii cultist to the spot with the stare of golden yellow eyes. Wolf

eyes.

The first cultist hit the far wall with a bang, his back broken. His fellows looked up from what they were doing and

saw their death in the shape of a two metres tall man with a silver sword with a gold aquila handle. The handle had the

same colour as the man's eyes, but the eyes were not those of a man at all.

"The Wolf!" one of them shouted, probably the leader. "The Wolf has returned! Hah! Offer his body to the Dark

Divinity that is Slaanesh, brothers! Show him a whole new spectrum of pain!"

With a fierce shriek, the Chaos pulled their weapons, only to be met with a guttural snarl and the perfectly honed edge

of the Yarrick sword.

Yarrick slashed and hacked his way through the cultists. These were in no way worthy of his rage; they were not

worthy prey. He felt the urge to kill surge through him like a tidal wave and God-Emperor it felt so good. As the last of

his opponents fell, Yarrick fought back an inhuman urge to howl out his victory. A small yelp escaped him. There was

suddenly another urge there; an urge that was far more repulsive. He felt that he needed to consume the flesh of his

fallen enemies. Yarrick suddenly felt that his canine teeth had grown almost a full two centimetres and realised what

was happening to him. Caspar, old uncle Caspar, had told him about it so many years ago, but he had not told the entire

truth. The Wolf curse affected Rolf too. He was no half-breed Space Marine. He was a Wolf, just as Caspar's brother

had been. But where he had been a monster, Yarrick was a hero, an Imperial Hero who had managed to suppress his

animal urges and used his powers for the Imperium and the God-Emperor of Mankind. Until now.

It took him almost an inhuman force of will to push back the wolf inside him, the very source of his powers, but he

managed. As Yarrick looked up, his eyes back to their normal emerald green, he saw only the bodies of five cultists

around him. That was barring Cecil's corpse.

"One funky move, and the child buys a one way ticket to the darkest pits of the Warp, Wolf!"

The voice was harsh and served its purpose in attracting Yarrick's attention. Yarrick turned round and saw the leader

of the cultists, a tall athletic man with a Slaanesh rune tattooed over the left half of his face, pointing a laspistol at the

temple of a terrified five year old boy. The boy had bluish black hair and green eyes, just like Rolf Yarrick.

"So it comes to this, you spineless piece of Warp filth?" Yarrick mocked. He still felt the Wolf, lurking just

underneath his skin, ready to pounce once again. "Threatening a child in exchange for your right to flee, tail between

the legs? No wonder your master never can best the Blood God in your Infernal hierarchy."

"You dare speak such blasphemy of Master Slaanesh!" The cultist shrieked and aimed the pistol at Yarrick. It was his

last mistake, ever. Yarrick was on him in a split second, putting himself between the gun and the boy. As the Yarrick

sword pierced the chest of the cultist leader, Yarrick looked him straight in the eyes and whispered "Tell your master,

from me, that I am back and this time I won't shirk from any challenge! Come and get me, if you can!"

With that, Yarrick pushed the dying cultist off his blade and let him fall to the ground with an empty thud. Quickly

wiping the blood off his sword on the silk clothing of the cultists and sheathing it in one smooth motion, Yarrick then

turned to the, by now, deeply traumatised boy.

He knelt down and looked at him, seeking eye contact. The boy looked back, after a few moments of reluctancy.

Yarrick knew the look the boy had. He had once had it himself. The look of a boy made rootless, scared and alone in

the cold universe.

"What's your name, lad?" Yarrick asked, trying to sound like the grand-father he was.

"Se-sebastian Yarrick," the boy replied. "Who are you?"

"I am Rolf Yarrick," Yarrick said, fighting back the urge to add "your grand-father".

"Rolf... Then... you're my grand-father? Mom and dad talks about you. A lot. You should tell them you're-" Sebastian

cut off as he saw the body of Cecil, despite Yarrick's best efforts to hide it from his view. The young boy's eyes

widened in horror as the true extent of his loss dawned on him and Rolf Yarrick grabbed hold of the boy, lifted him up

and carried him out of the house, before he could protest.

As Yarrick left Frederick's home, with young Sebastian on his shoulder, screaming, kicking and crying out to be with

his mother, Rolf made his mind up on one particular point. Sebastian was to be more or less entirely cut off from his

Callidussian roots. With a little bit of luck, he would not even remember what had actually happened to his mother and

"father".

McKenzie had been right; you can take a commissar out of duty, but you can not take the duty out of a commissar.

And the first thing a commissar learns is to lie.

* * *

Nearly five years later, Rolf Yarrick sat looking out a vast vista of ash wasteland on Armageddon. He was currently 

living in Infernus Hive and was an honoured guest of the Lord Governor, Wilhelm von Strab. Rolf had opted not to fill

Sebastian in on what exactly had happened on Callidus that day. They boy sincerely believed he was an orphan, in the

care of his grand-father.

Governor von Strab, who was sitting next to him, seemed to understand what was going through Yarrick's head.

"You have to tell him some day, Rolf. It is inevitable. The truth wants out and it will find a way out," he chided.

"One day," Yarrick replied slowly. "But not now. He's just gotten some roots, something to call a home, Wilhelm. I

can't take that away form him, now can I?" von Strab shook his head.

"He seems to be getting along famously with Luthor, doesn't he?" von Strab remarked, changing the subject slightly

and indicated the two young boys, playing with the von Strab family's gyrinx, Sela. Yarrick simply nodded.

There was a moment of silence between the two men.

"Sebastian has picked up the Armageddon dialect," Yarrick said at final. "He referred to me as 'Opa' the other day."

"High Armageddonian, to be more precise, Rolf. But I see what you mean. Yet, you remark on it as if it was a bad

thing."

Yarrick gave a shrug. "It could be, if he is to have a position within Imperial Administration."

"So..." the Lord Governor said, not quite wanting to voice his thought, as he knew how it would be received. "He's not

to be an Imperial Commissar, then?"

"No," was Yarrick's curt reply. He was silent for a little while before adding, "I became one. Look at what it gave me.

A life of endless sorrow. I want at least Sebastian's life to have a fairly happy end to it."

"All life ends with death, Rolf. You of all people should know that."

Yarrick nodded again and there was another moment of silence between them. Yarrick watched his grand-son playing

with his friend. He hoped the friendship would last to adulthood. It would give Sebastian something to call a family,

when Rolf himself was gone.

"You said you would tell Sebastian about his parents one day, Rolf. Any idea when? I'm sorry if I sound prying, but I

am just curious. No need to reply if you don't want to."

"No bother, Wilhelm. I will tell you why and when. When: it will have to be soon. Why: let me show you." Rolf

straightened his left arm and relaxed his left hand. There was an almost unnoticeable tremor to it after a few seconds.

Yarrick quickly clasped his hand to hide the tremor.

"God-Emperor..." Wilhelm whispered. "Has this been for long?"

"It has gotten worse these last few years. I think my whole genetic structure is dismantling itself. At least that was

what Master Lexicanum McKenzie told me when I informed him of the tremor."

"McKenzie of the Death Angels Legion?"

"Are there any other?"

"True. But... what can be causing that? Is it a disease or age or... what?"

"A little bit of both," Yarrick said with a wry smile. "I'm almost 250 years old, Wilhelm, so of course it could be age."

"I keep forgetting that..." Wilhelm mumbled silently to himself, but Yarrick heard him.

"You are in good company. I do it some times too. McKenzie's theory of cause is this." Yarrick showed Wilhelm his

right hand, as if the Lord Governor had never seen it before. Yarrick's right hand was bionic, a mechanoid prosthetic to

replace his old one, which he had lost to the cursed blade of Lord Kharn during their last encounter. Yarrick told this to

Wilhelm as well.

"So, there could be Chaos to it as well?" von Strab asked tentatively. Yarrick shot him a dark look, telling him not to

go there.

"I didn't say that."

"Yet fact remains; you have, up until the point where your hand was cut off, not aged visibly since your 25th birthday.

Then the Dark Lord goes and chops your right hand off with a deamon blade, you get a prosthetic and start to grey.

What part of that is not blatantly obvious?"

Yarrick did not reply. He did not want von Strab's words to be true, yet deep down he knew the man was right.

Yarrick's death sentence had been signed more than thirty years ago. He had lost against Kharn. Or had he?

"This might sound excessively rude, but how many years have you got left, Rolf? How many more years do you think

you can carry on like you do now?"

"I am retired."

"You know what I mean. The whole Imperium knows about your vow not to rest until Kharn meets his maker. Why

else would you continue fighting like his? Most people think that your resignation from commissarial and military duty

was just a new tactic, to gather strength and train and hone your personal fighting skills. Were they wrong? Were all

their hopes misgiven?"

"Are you certain you aren't a relative of McKenzie?" Yarrick asked, an impish light in his eye. It hadn't been there a

moment before, but von Strab was relieved to see the Imperial Hero take the question so lightly. Maybe there was

nothing to be worried about after all.

"Wilhelm, right now, my main concern is raising Sebastian to be a proper Imperial citizen. It isn't easy, being a single

parent. I can't carry out that duty, as well as any obligations to the Imperial Guard, at the same time. I learned that in the

past. You have no idea how many of my children I alienated myself from, because of my duties to the Emperor. I won't

let it happen again. And to answer your question; I have more than enough years left to raise Sebastian and face off

again Kharn once more. This time, he won't get the better of me, I know it."

"And Sebastian's parents' true fate?"

"Somewhere in-between his adulthood and my death, most likely."

"And when do you consider Sebastian adult more precisely?"

"When he turns fifteen."

"That's when you'll tell him?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But I can't be more precise."

Wilhelm von Strab shook his head, smiling. The two men lapsed back into silence. There was not much else to add to

the matter. Suddenly, Yarrick came to attention and half-rose out of his chair.

"Sebastian, be careful wi-" he began but was cut of by a howl of pain. Luthor von Strab had taken a firm grip around

the family gyrinx and tried to pry it off Sebastian's left arm. Rolf Yarrick quickly got down to the two boys, followed by

Wilhelm.

"Let go, Seela!" Luthor demanded from his pet, putting his own fingers at risk as he tried to pry the animal's jaws

open and loosen the paws from Sebastian's flesh. Apart from the tears rolling down his cheeks, Sebastian made no other

sound. Lord Governor von Strab was amazed at the mettle of the boy, but ascribed it to the tutelage of Rolf Yarrick.

Yarrick himself just grabbed the gyrinx firmly by the scruff of its neck and stared it square in the eyes.

"Let go!" he growled. Seela immediately obeyed and let go of Sebastian's arm.

"Rolf, I'm so sorry. She usually isn't like this. I-" von Strab apologised, but Yarrick cut him off.

"No, don't worry about it, Wilhelm. I'll have to take Sebastian to a doctor, though."

"I'll call for the house doctor. No need to pay, of course."

Yarrick nodded and followed Wilhelm von Strab out into the outer chambers, Sebastian in tow, whimpering only

slightly.

Young Luthor von Strab was left behind. Luthor knew why Seela had attacked, but he dared not voice it. And he

knew why she had let go. He had seen that too.

When he and Sebastian had played with Seela, the tricks Sebastian had made had been pulled off with a slight golden

yellow glow to his green eyes, gone as suddenly as it had appeared. And when Herr Yarrick had told Seela to let go, he

had had the same golden yellow glow to his eyes, just more intensive.

Luthor had seen those eyes on only one kind of animal. An animal considered almost as sacred as the eagle.

"Wolves," he said silently to himself.

* * *

"Opa, I still don't understand why we're here. It's not as if I have any connection to Callidus, is it?" Sebastian Yarrick, 

15 years old, complained to his grand-father. He could not for his life understand why they had to go to Callidus. "I am

Armageddonian. I speak both High and Low Armageddonian flawlessly. Why do I have to go to Callidus?"

"To find out the truth about your past and yourself, Sebastian," Rolf Yarrick calmly replied. The boy had complained

about this ever since they had left Armageddon a week ago. Rolf had planned the journey so that they would arrive at

their destination on Sebastian's 15th birthday.

"What do you mean, truth? I am an orphan, you took care of me after retiring. That's the truth, isn't it?"

"It's one truth," Rolf replied, again just as calmly.

"Eh?"

The two men, the grey-haired Rolf Yarrick and the bluishblack-haired Sebastian, where walking the last two

kilometres to the Yarrick tomb, though Rolf had not told Sebastian about their destination yet. It would be quite a

surprise. As would the other information he would divulge to the lad today. Yet it had to be done. There was not much

time left.

"You will learn, Sebastian, that there can be more than one truth to things. For example, the Dark Lord Kharn is a

hideous traitor that should be hated, truth. But he is also a master strategist, who knows how to use his soldiers to

maximum effect and thus shouldn't be underestimated. Another truth, that doesn't necessarily exclude the other."

"Okay, Opa, I follow you, but what has that to do with me. And more to the point, my relationship with you?"

"More than you think," Rolf muttered. Sebastian gave his grand-father a puzzled look, but the old man took no notice.

They were getting close to the tomb now. Rolf could almost smell it in the air. It was getting time to tell Sebastian

about his parents. But where to begin?

"Sebastian, do you remember your parents?" he began.

"I remember mother well enough. She was very kind. Though there was always something sad about her. At least

from what little I remember. I was so young when the accident happened. I barely remember her face."

Rolf winced at the mention of the "accident". Sebastian had no idea what kind of accident it had been. The young man

continued.

"It's the same with father. For some reason, I have never felt I got really close to him, the little time I knew him. It

was as if he distanced himself from me deliberately. I can't fathom why he would do that."

"How did they die, do you think?"

"You told me; it was an accident. Slippery road. Frekk happens. Right?"

Rolf decided to grab the bethas by the horns. "It was no accident, Sebastian. Not like that, at least."

"What do you mean?"

"It is true your parents died in an accident, yes. But not like that. Your father died many years before your mother.

You weren't even born when James Yarrick died."

"My father was named Frederick. I figured you'd know, being his father and all."

"My mind hasn't gone yet, Sebastian. Your father was none else than James Yarrick, the man Cecil, your mother,

married and that Frederick Yarrick, your uncle and Imperial Commissar, took care of at my command, more or less."

"But, if my biological father was Captain James Yarrick... why didn't mother take care of me on my own?"

"I wouldn't let her."

"Why not?"

"Too dangerous."

"What do you mean 'too dangerous'?"

"Sebastian, your real father, died by my hand." There, it was said.

The young man just stood gaping, aghast. He'd stopped dead in his tracks and just stared at his grand-father.

"You did what?"

"I killed him."

Rolf saw the question forming in Sebastian's eyes, but the boy couldn't bring himself to utter it. Rolf decided to beat

him to it.

"James was mortally wounded. Bolt in the gut. He asked me, practically begged me, to end his life. And I did."

"Why? You have always told me that life is precious, that we have no right to end a life, any life, arbitrarily."

"Would you refuse the last wish of someone you love, Sebastian?" Rolf asked and looked his grandson square in the

eyes. Sebastian could not quite meet the gaze, cast down his eyes and shook his head.

"I thought so," Rolf added. There was a brief silence and then he continued. "I did the same to Frederick."

Sebastian looked up sharp. "You're kidding me! As if it weren't bad enough that you killed one of my fathers, you

have to go kill the last one I have!"

"Most people only ever have one father, Sebastian, so count yourself as lucky. It was the same scenario; he was

mortally wounded and asked me to kill him. I had no choice. But know this; every time I've seen someone dear to me

die, without being able to prevent it, I've felt a part of me go cold and die. Having to do that to my own sons were more

than ten times worse."

Sebastian seemed to stomach this for a moment and then asked what he had been thinking of for the last five minutes.

"Did you kill mother too?"

"Cecil? No. She was already dead when I found her."

"Dead as in not herself or-?"

"Dead as in dead, Sebastian. Your family home, the day your parents died, was attacked by Slaaneshii cultists.

Remember what I've told you about their practices? Do you remember what Slaanesh stands for in the Dark Pantheon?"

"Yes, he's the god of forbidden pleasures and passions..." Sebastian's voice trailed off as he realised what had

happened to his mother ten years ago. He suddenly remembered what he had seen. "My good God-Emperor... That is

sick!"

"I thought so too," Rolf said, understating his reaction to what he had seen. "I informed the cultists of this."

"You didn't-?"

"I killed them all, Sebastian. All of them. How could I let the heathens live after having seen something like that?"

"I should have known."

"What?"

"That's what you do. It's your answer to everything: killing it. Wherever you go, death follows. Isn't that the true

reason they call you the Wolf of Callidus?"

Rolf gave Sebastian a hard look, but this time the boy did not look away.

"I never said I enjoyed doing it," Rolf growled.

"Oh, don't you? Right now, I can almost see you bristling! Heck, even your hand is reaching for the pommel of your

sword, Opa!"

Rolf stopped dead when he realised that the boy was right; his hand had actually strayed towards his sword. Was the

Wolf Curse affecting him more than he'd thought?

"I'm right, aren't I?" Sebastian asked with a self-assured voice.

Rolf hesitated before before he answered. "Maybe," he said at length. "If it is so, then you might understand why I so

dearly want you to be different, Sebastian?"

Sebastian looked a bit stumped at this answer, but he did understand the point his grand-father wanted to get across. It

made sense. In the insane and war-filled life that Rolf Yarrick had lived, his actions toward Sebastian made sense.

Sebastian had to conclude that his grand-father was not the most complete of people in terms of emotions. And frankly

speaking, who was? Was Sebastian himself a "whole person", when it came to it?

"You said there was another reason for taking me to Callidus, Opa. What was that? It can't most certainly not only

have been to reveal this... ghastly truth to me."

"Ghastly?" Rolf asked and started walking again. Sebastian followed without question this time.

"Yes, it is ghastly to know that my own grand-father killed my... there is no other way to put it; my two fathers. It is

ghastly to find out that my grand-father is a man who lives on slaughter and mayhem. But it doesn't change the truth

that already is there; you're fighting for the Imperium, fighting and killing in the name of the Emperor. You're also my

grand-father and, God-Emperor help me, I can't say other than that I love you."

"There you see; both are truths. One doesn't exclude the other."

"I understand that much. So what was your other reason for dragging me with you to Callidus? No, let me rephrase

that: what is the real reason you brought me here?"

Rolf stopped in front of a large and sombre building made out of dark basalt. "This," he said and turned to Sebastian.

"This is the Yarrick family tomb. This is what I wanted to show you."

"Yarrick family...? What is it doing on Callidus?" Sebastian asked, quite visibly astonished by the building.

"Because this is where we come from, Sebastian. You too were born on Callidus, but I took you away. Hid you, you

could say. Hid you, not from physical enemies but from memories that could be activated by places on Callidus."

"You seem to know a lot about repressed memories, Opa," Sebastian said with a wry smile. Rolf's look was dead

serious, though.

"Yes, I do. The tomb was constructed on the same spot where my childhood home stood, before it was burnt down."

"Burnt down?" Sebastian asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes. Rolf did not often speak of his past. This might be one

of those rare occasions when Sebastian could learn something from the man himself instead of history books.

Rolf understood the look in his grand-son's eyes. "Let's go inside. I can tell you more there," he said, evading the

question in an elegant manner.

Rolf unlocked the heavy oaken door and pulled it open. There was a slight squeal of protest from the hinges and Rolf

sourly reflected that he would have to get somebody to oil them. He did not have the time, never had. What did not

cross his mind was that they had always been practically soundless these last two hundred years.

He led Sebastian inside and followed suit, taking the door with him. Sebastian gaped at the large concrete and basalt

angels and busts that watched next to the almost two dozen or more sarcophagi. The interior was decorated in the same

manner as any Imperial church, just without the many windows, giving the whole place a very gloomy look indeed.

There were a few rows of hardwood benches on each side of the main walkway down to the altar, so the building was

obviously intended for funerals as well. The altar itself was dominated by a large sculpture, not an angel, not the usual

double eagle either, but a larger than life statue of a tall and muscular man. Sebastian thought there was something

vaguely familiar with the man's face. He was dressed in the formal attire of the Callidussian nobility, except that his

muscular arms were bare. And his hands were clasped in front of his chest, as if in standing prayer. But there was

something about the pose that suggested that praying was not the thing this statue was supposed to symbolise.

"Hrodwulf Le'man Yarr'eich. Our ancestor. The man who made the sword I now wield," Rolf said, seeing Sebastian's

amazed stare. He walked up next to his grand-son. "Hrm. I haven't thought about that before."

"What, Opa?"

"That the sculptor based Le'man's looks on mine."

"I just wondered why he looked familiar." This made Rolf laugh out loud. The boy had a a knack of being funny

without noticing. And when he really tried...

"Sebastian, come with me," Rolf said and indicated a certain couple of sarcophagi. Sebastian followed.

"This is where your parents lie, Sebastian; all three of them," Rolf said and indicated the sarcophagi. "They fulfilled

their duty to the Emperor more than enough. Honour them and remember their sacrifice; that is all I demand of you."

Rolf fell silent and moved away from Sebastian, leaving the boy alone to ponder his memory of them. As he got to the

door of the tomb, he turned round.

"I'll be waiting outside, Sebastian," he said and walked out.

Sebastian was standing beside the tomb of his mother. He barely paid attention to his grand-father's comment. His

mind was busy contemplating something, something that had bothered him for quite some time.

His grand-father wanted him to become an ordinary citizen of the Imperium, a pen-pusher of the Administratum or a

cog-boy of the Adeptus Mechanicus. But, as Sebastian learned more and more about his past and the Yarrick family's

past, he could not see any other future for himself but that of a warrior, a soldier in the Imperial Guard. Maybe he would

even become an officer one day. Both his fathers had been officers in the Guard, Frederick had even been a Commissar.

Why could not he, Sebastian, be one?

The Imperium of Mankind was beset on all sides by enemies that sought to bring it down; it needed its soldiers.

Sebastian wanted to be one but he did not know how to put forth that to his grand-father. Rolf had done all in his power

to make sure Sebastian had a genteel upbringing. And yet Sebastian could not help himself: he felt his place was on a

battle field, not in an office. Something within him wanted him to fight the foul creatures of Chaos and the loathsome

heretics and aliens.

"I will just have to tell him straight," Sebastian said to himself. "He will understand. He must understand how I feel

after having seen you." The last bit was aimed at the sarcophagi.

His mind made up, Sebastian made for the door. As he got outside, the sharp sunlight blinding him for a short

moment, he walked up behind Rolf.

"Opa, I have something I must-"

"Sebastian, get back inside," Rolf interrupted. "Now!" His back was turned from Sebastian during all this. There was

something in his stance that gave Sebastian a slightly creeping feeling.

"But, Opa, I-"

"Inside! Now!" This time, it was an order. Sebastian felt the authority in the words. By now, he had gotten so close,

he saw that Rolf's hand was firmly on the hilt of his sword. It was pulled out of its sheath by just a centimetre, but

Sebastian saw the fait glow in the blade.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Sebastian turned his eyes from Rolf to where he was looking. He felt his stomach lurch at

the sight. Barely twenty metres away from both of them, a giant in red power armour was standing. The brazen trims of

his armour seemed to meld with the red in an organic manner. His left arm's armour was completely missing and long

antlers were growing out of his helmet. The green eye slits of the helmet seemed to burn with an inner light. In the

monster's right hand, a long, wickedly shaped blade that oozed green fumes was clutched firmly. The tattered and blood

spattered loincloth it was wearing bore the unmistakable Khorne rune. Sebastian felt his stomach lurch again as he

realised that it was made of human skin.

The monster spoke. "So, you are Sebastian Yarrick?" It was a deep, pleasant voice, but the mere fact that Sebastian

felt, rather than heard some of it, made him uneasy. No human could have a voice that went down into the infra sound

range.

"Your business is with me, not him, Kharn," Rolf said and drew the monster's attention away from his grand-son.

Sebastian, being released from Kharn's gaze, fled inside the Yarrick family tomb. He knew he was out of his league.

As Sebastian closed the heavy door shut behind him, Kharn chuckled slightly.

"You still care too much, Yarrick. Do you really think you can take me on?"

"I don't think about it, Kharn," Yarrick replied. "I have no choice but to take you on; you made it so. I did not choose

this moment."

Kharn gave another chuckle and started to walk towards the greying Yarrick. "You are ageing, Yarrick. There is little

to no chance of you even scratching me. If you had come earlier, with this same determination, you could have had a

chance. But not now. Not ever."

Kharn stopped a few metres short of Rolf. Rolf knew what the chaos filth had seen. He had not shown it in his voice,

but Rolf knew that Kharn had seen the yellow glint in his eyes, seen that there was no opening in Yarrick's guard. Rolf

knew because he felt it in every fibre of his body.

"I am ageing because of you, Kharn. You cost me my right hand and more that day forty years ago. But I am better

prepared today."

"Are you?" Kharn replied. Still no hint of a doubt in his voice. Well, that would change soon enough.

"When we first met, I was fuelled by hatred, just like you. And just like you, I made mistakes," Yarrick explained.

The last remark gave a slight reaction; a twitch in the left biceps. "And last time we met face to face, I was consumed by

my love for my family, which you duly pointed out, was a weakness. True. But I have learned my lesson well." Yarrick

paused a short moment. "My hatred for you burns stronger than ever; I need that to kill you. But my love for my family

is undiminished; it is what will make me go all out. Together, these two emotions will help me destroy you."

"You think that is enough to kill me? Some paltry emotions?"

"Of course I'll need to use the sword."

"Haven't you ever wondered why I do this, Yarrick? Why I turned against the Imperium and gave up all?" Kharn

asked.

"To be honest, the reasons why did not enter my mind. I was occupied with how to destroy you. And why should I

listen? For all I know, it is lies of the Warp."

Kharn's next comment surprised Yarrick. "I respect you too much as a warrior and adversary to lie to you at a time

like this. Remember, I was once a Space Marine, a battle brother to the likes of McKenzie and McGranth." Kharn

started to unbuckle his helmet with his free hand and pulled it off. It fell to the ground with a clanging noise. Yarrick

stared at the, despite the scars, still fairly handsome face. This was the face of his nemesis?

"I once served in the same company as Charleston. But where they still struggle in the dark, I have seen the truth."

"Truth?"

"What will become of us Space Marines when the Imperium bests its opponents. When I liberated the Axe of Khaine

from the Eldarain, I stared into the Well of Souls on board their Craftworld. I am glad I did. The future I saw was not a

pretty one. A humanity reduced to nothing, ending its days as slaves to aliens instead of gloriously ruling the galaxy;

that is what I saw. I have worked ever since to prevent that future from becoming."

"Have you? To me, it seems more like you are marching in the line of fell gods, gods that seek to exploit humanity in

just the way you wanted to avoid. There is a reason we refer to your lot as slaves to darkness."

"Chaos can be dominated."

"Not by those mortal born. How do you know you're the one in command, Kharn? What guarantees it? How can you

know, when you have willingly given up your own free will?" Yarrick knew he was pushing things in a very

metaphysical direction, but he did so on purpose. He knew that eventually, Kharn could not follow him. Charleston had

not when Yarrick had exposed him to this question, and neither had McGranth. McKenzie had been a different business

altogether, but Kharn were not of McKenzie's intellectual calibre and Yarrick knew that.

Kharn did not disappoint him. He gave the exact reaction Yarrick had hoped to provoke; rage.

With a snarl, Kharn swung his sword against Yarrick in a horizontal, slashing motion. Yarrick met it with his own

sword, drawn in one smooth motion from its sheath.

Kharn had known there was no opening to the guard Yarrick had posed, but overcome by rage, he had not been able

to stop himself. Now, however, both had his guard broken and Kharn went all out on the offensive.

Kharn went in with another attack, barely pausing after the first one. Yarrick knew full well why: a normal human

would have been sent reeling from a direct parry, but Kharn was anything but human. Yarrick actually resented having

parried the blow; it had sent a sharp pain into his shoulder. He doubted he could parry another one like that and be sure

his shoulder would not pop out of its joint. So he opted to use the one thing Kharn did not have: swiftness.

Despite his ageing body, Yarrick was still more than capable to dodge and roll out of harm's way. As Kharn lunged in

again, Yarrick dove to the right and struck at Kharn's exposed left arm. Kharn spun just in time so that Yarrick's blow

struck the armour of the power armour's backpack. Cursing under his breath, Yarrick ducked as Kharn came full circle

in his motion and sliced his deamon blade through the air where Yarrick had been a split second before.

Rolling backwards, Yarrick tried to distance himself from the monster and get a chance to spring back at him before

Kharn regained his balance from the wild swing. As Yarrick came in at him, Kharn raised his unarmoured left arm, but

not to block.

Kharn got his arm in underneath Yarrick's blade and grabbed him out of the air. Yarrick let out a gasp of pain as he

felt Kharn's fingers dig into his chest.

With a grunt, Kharn threw Yarrick at the doors of the tomb. As Yarrick struck them, he felt how the wood gave way

behind him and sent him crashing inside.

As he landed on the ground with a thud his mind was already twitching his toes to see if his back had been broken. It

had not. Rolling round, Yarrick prepared to meet Kharn once again. It was clear that he did not have the speed

necessary to pull off such a stunt any more.

Yarrick got ready to dodge again as he heard a guttural war cry from outside. As Kharn stormed at him, Yarrick

prepared his move. It had to be timed well to be successful. As Kharn sent his blade crashing down two-handedly in a

vertical slice, Yarrick dodged to the right again. This time, however, he switched his blade from the right to the left

hand, holding it in a dagger-like fashion.

This time, Kharn could not dodge and the Yarrick sword left a long, deep gash in the Berzerker Lord's left arm. Kharn

let out a bestial yowl of pain and turned towards Yarrick deal him a blow with his fist wrapped around the deamon

sword's hilt.

He never got so far as landing the blow. Kharn stopped suddenly, his face mere millimetres from Yarrick's blade tip.

The silver blade of the deamon slayer sword glittered in the gloom of the tomb, which had been reduced a bit by the

sudden removal of the door.

Red blood dripped like pearls from the blade and struck the ground underneath it.

"It ends here, Kharn," Yarrick said. The yellow glow was back in his eyes.

"Khorne cares not whence the blood flows, Yarrick," Kharn replied confidently.

"Maybe he doesn't but you, and I, do," Yarrick said and pushed the blade forward so it touched Kharn with its tip

between his eyes. A tiny drop of blood welled up where the skin had been pierced.

"Opa?" Sebastian asked and looked up from his hiding place. "Is it safe?"

Yarrick's attention was shifted for a split second from Kharn to his grandson. It was all Kharn needed.

The Berzerker Lord took a step backwards, brought up his sword and in the same motion lunged forward. The Yarrick

sword passed by his right ear, harmlessly as he dove in.

Yarrick's attention was shifted back by Kharn's initial motion, but it was too late. In horrid fascination, he saw the

blade come at his chest. He saw how it pierced his skin, went through his sternum, but he did not feel it. Yarrick heard

how the deamon blade, with a wet squelch, came out his back.

Kharn almost ripped the blade out of Yarrick's body.

The Yarrick sword hit the floor with a clang, dropped. The glow on it vanished.

Slowly, like a falling autumn leave, Yarrick fell to the ground and came to rest on his back. As he felt the last of his

life leave him, he saw that Sebastian was once again safely hidden. Then he heard the dark chuckle of Kharn as the

Berzerker Lord stood over him, triumphant. Yarrick tried to make his lips give a defiant reply, but they would not

respond. The edges of the red giant grew fuzzier by the second. He could not hear him anymore.

Then darkness.


End file.
